


The Ripper and The Scourge

by Daevastanner



Category: The Daevabad Trilogy - S. A. Chakraborty
Genre: Canon Compliant, Daevabad Trilogy, Daevabad Trilogy characters are mentioned, Dara - Freeform, Darayavahoush e-Afshin - Freeform, Empire of gold spoilers, Fanfiction, Historical Fantasy, Jack the Ripper - Freeform, Murder Mystery, Other, Post Empire of Gold, This Is Not An AU, post-eog, this is not shippy, victorian london
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:41:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 23,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28658136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daevastanner/pseuds/Daevastanner
Summary: Dara’s quest to find the missing slave vessels took him all over the world, but only in 1880’s London would he face a menace as notorious as he was: Jack the Ripper.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. The Crown Jewel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara arrives in London and makes an unlikely ally

It had been almost a century since Dara set out on his impossible mission to track down the ifrit and their scattered slave vessels. He’d seen many sights in his travels, wonders of modern technology that rivaled the great works of Daevabad. Airships, trains, steamboats, and machines that seemingly allowed you to communicate with people on the other side of the world. Most recently, the rare automobile. It appeared that humans were not in desperate need of slave magic, they had magic all of their own. Magic he begrudgingly marveled at.

While he found his first slave vessel not far from Cairo and his first ifrit closer to Tehran, he’d been beckoned to a place called Paris to retrieve an emerald plated bangle. The people there were mostly pink and spoke in a language that made Dara’s tongue sore. He hadn’t particularly cared for that city or the sweet scent of their food that lingered in nearly every street. 

Now the city called “Kyoto” Dara had enjoyed. Every building was pleasing to the eye, people moved with urgency and their language had been easy enough to pick up. He’d tracked down both a slave vessel and an ifrit there. While he was pleased to have had such a productive visit, it was concerning just how far the ifrit’s reach extended. It seemed they'd journeyed far and wide over their centuries.

But for the seemingly endless life of him, Dara could not fathom why on earth anyone would journey _here._

London.

It was a grim city. The buildings were uniform, the roads uneven, the people pallid and the streets swimming in a smokey fog. He would have preferred the sugary scents of France to whatever this odor was. 

In each place he visited Dara had taken to collecting a gift for his Banu Nahida. Nahri was likely still bound to Daevabad and while they would probably never go on the adventures she’d longed for, he could give her little pieces of the world. Like the jade lion from Kyoto or the woven basket from a village in Prussia. _Here,_ though.

_Creator, there is nothing worth getting her from here…_

He could always resort to his backup gift: books. He knew from her letters she quite enjoyed them. Then again, this tongue (which he was quickly becoming acquainted with), sounded even worse than the one in Paris. It was harsh and slippery but also as blunt as a rusty zulfiqar. He couldn’t imagine what reading it would be like (particularly because he couldn’t read anything but Divasti, and that was only with what little tutoring the Princess had given him).

But gift-giving was a problem for another time. London, it seemed, had recently been wracked by six grisly murders. The killer had yet to be apprehended and was apparently gifted at evading the authorities. The level of brutality and high quantity of victims in such a short period reminded Dara of one of his masters, a man with a grudge against his brothers. Each Dara had slaughtered in increasingly barbaric ways. Perhaps this killer had the slave vessel and was doing something similar. It was a slim lead, but if Dara had learned anything from his time seeking retribution, that was as good a place as any to start.

And where was the best place to start tracing a lead? Wherever tongues flowed freely and liquor was cheap. Taverns. Dara would sit in the shadows, overlooked by the human eye, and listen patiently for any whispers of the rumor he was chasing. 

But the drinking establishments here proved practically useless. The behavior inside was solemn, tired, and angry. Inhibitions were lowered but more so were spirits. The aim of this tavern in particular seemed to be drinking yourself into a half-dazed stupor. Not that Dara could blame them.

_If I suffered the misfortune of living here, I would not want to be sober._

Dara stalked out of the tavern in a poor mood. If a bar wouldn’t bring him loose lips then he’d have to find a pleasure house. Men were often careless there and let their words get away with them. Dara would detest it, but he could sit in an alcove and listen closely for any secrets that might be divulged by some fool trying to impress a fair maiden.

Growing frustrated with the packed streets, Dara jostled his way through the crowd, nearly compromising his turban in the process. He was sorely tempted to transform into the wind and avoid all of this unneeded physical contact, but he did not wish to risk missing out on any useful gossip. 

As he continued searching for a pleasure house, the smokey fog became denser, as did the crowds. The uniform buildings decreased in size and the already uneven streets featured more holes and divots. Dara, feeling as though he may quite literally combust in aggravation, bolted to the far side of the street, where things seemed less crowded. He caught the breath he didn’t technically lose (but valued nonetheless) and released a grumble of irritation. It was bad enough visiting human cities and feeling like a wraith amidst the people, but here it was worse. Here he was in constant contact and couldn’t even dodge out of their way. There was simply no room.

He also didn’t care for the way the physical contact had resulted in eyes lingering on him longer than he was used to. It was harder to dismiss his existence when everyone was nearly shoulder to shoulder.

“You’re a different lookin’ one.”

Dara turned at the sound of the female voice. In a doorway was a woman who almost made his jaw drop. She was beautiful - staggeringly so. She had skin slightly fairer than his and large dark eyes, framed by thick lashes. Her lips were painted a ruby red and tilted up at the corners in an alluring smirk. Hair was piled high on her head and tumbled down around her face in ebony waves.

Then there was her clothing - or lack thereof. She was dressed unlike any woman he’d encountered here yet. A scarlet dress that fell just beneath her knees with a neckline that left little to the imagination. She took a step closer to him, letting the shawl around her arms drop just slightly to reveal her shoulders. 

If she wouldn’t forget his face in a matter of seconds he may have blushed in embarrassment. It was inappropriate for him to gawk at a woman so freely. 

But she didn’t seem to forget and she didn’t seem to mind. Instead, she only stepped closer.

“You aren’t from around here, judging by those clothes,” she smiled, tugging at his pine green jacket. The woman’s eyes danced with amusement. “I wonder if you’d let me help you out of them…”

Dara pursed his lips, shrugging off her hand.

He’d found it apparently. A pleasure house.

Dara pushed past the woman and started towards the door behind her. 

The inside was lit only by the gentle glow of the setting sun and the oil lamps hanging on the walls. Many women, in similar dress, occupied what appeared to be a lobby. Some were at tables with multiple men, playing cards, sharing a drink, or even lounging in their laps. One woman tugged a man up a set of stairs to the far left of the room.

Dara spotted a bar with a few vacant stools. He could take a place there and wait-

“You’re hurting my feelings.”

Dara looked over his shoulder to see the woman from outside pouting at him. He exhaled as she placed a delicate hand on his shoulder, her lips spreading in a grin.

“You’re very warm… not to mention strong.”

Dara peeled her fingers off of him. “No, thank you,” he enunciated. Surely she would forget him, now that he’d officially dismissed her. 

He went to the bar, taking a seat on a stool towards the end. He folded his hands on the slick, wooden surface and patiently-

“I’ll have you know that I’m the crown jewel of this establishment.”

Dara turned, a mixture of frustration and confusion churning through him. She was back? She remembered him? This was certainly interesting, and potentially dangerous. He opened his mouth to turn her away again but thought better. This woman likely overheard a great many secrets. If she remembered him, then he could ask her whatever questions he wished. He wouldn’t need to eavesdrop or sit around and wait for information to fall from a stranger’s lips. 

And the sooner he got this information the sooner he could get out of this abysmal city.

“Alright, jewel, you’ve convinced me,” Dara said, spinning on his stool to face her.

She smiled triumphantly and looked over Dara’s shoulder. “Clara, I need a room!” 

A sturdy looking woman with bronze curls behind the bar offered a nod and selected a brass key off of a hook on the wall. Many more of the same fashion hung beside it, each labeled with a number plate. 

Clara handed a key to the woman. “Number six, Lilla,” she said, eyes sweeping over Dara. “Well spotted, as usual.”

Dara quirked a brow, confused by her meaning, but “Lilla” only bowed her head and accepted the key. Her slender fingers grabbed Dara’s wrist as she pulled him off of his stool and started for the left side of the room. Much like the man he had seen moments ago, Dara was tugged up the stairs.

They came to a narrow hallway lit with more oil lamps, sconced into the walls. Down the hall were many numbered doors and from them, Dara could hear all manner of noises. Oh, yes, this was a pleasure house indeed. Lilla glanced at him over her shoulder and smiled that devilish smile again, mistaking the satisfied expression on his face.

“Clara’s got the best brothel in the East End, sir. Real fancy with proper heat and lighting. Nice beds too.”

“How fortunate for me,” Dara said.

“For _us,_ love,” amended Lilla.

They arrived at a door with a copper “8” nailed into it. Lilla inserted her key in the lock and pushed it open. 

She gestured to the warmly lit room within. “After you, sir.”

Dara entered and found the room to be similar to everything else he’d seen in London. Cramped, dim, and dismal, with the exception of a rather plush looking bed that took up nearly half of the room. Dara heard the door click as Lilla shut it behind them. 

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said, busying herself with the lanterns mounted on the walls.

Dara took a seat on the bed.

“I’m Lilla. What are you called, sir?” 

“Dara.”

“Mmm, Dara,” she purred, facing him. Lilla let her shawl fall to the floor. “What brings you to Whitechapel of all places?”

Not wanting her to disrobe any further, Dara decided to get straight to the point.

“Are you familiar with the string of murders that have taken place recently?”

The blood drained from Lilla's face and Dara briefly wondered if he’d said something offensive. She shifted her weight from foot to foot.

“Am _I_ familiar?” she seethed. 

“Yes,” Dara said slowly. 

“Are you a policeman?”

“Um - no.” Dara didn’t think he was. 

“You came for a laugh then? Thought you were funny asking a girl if she knew about the Leather Apron?”

Dara’s brows furrowed. He could be funny on occasion but judging by her tone and the set of her jaw she was not finding him so. 

Lilla turned on her heel, marching the brief distance to the door. Dara released a discontented growl of irritation and conjured a dagger. He threw it at the door, wedging it just in the seam of the opening. Lilla froze.

Pleased with himself, Dara prepared to press forward.

Lilla whirled on him. From the top of her head, two powerful, black horns grew. Her eyes blazed and her rounded ears elongated into points. The nails on her fingers grew sharp as a rukh’s talons.

Dara’s silver bow materialized in his hand and in a heartbeat he was aiming an arrow at her chest. A moment ago Lilla had been quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon, now she was a creature from a nightmare. 

This at least explained why she could see him. She wasn’t human. 

But as Dara drew back his arrow her expression was one of terror. Shame fell over him. The fear in her eyes awakened old demons. Perhaps it was a trick, perhaps he was making a mistake, but as Lilla sank to her knees, shielding her face with her hands, Dara lowered his bow.

“What are you?” he demanded. “Some sort of shaitan?”

Her hands still shielding her face, Lilla answered. “I’m a cambion. Half succubus on my mother’s side. My father was a Jew who fled the pogroms! I’m begging you, sir, please don’t hurt me!” she whimpered, nails and horns retracting.

_Half? Creator, when will the cross-breeding end…_

Dara slung his bow on his back with a defeated sigh. He felt quite stupid. He’d rather overreacted to this defenseless, little - what had she said she was?

“Half what?” he asked. When she didn’t move he spoke again. “Get up. I won’t hurt you.”

Lilla’s arm swept out, in her hand the dagger that Dara had wedged in the doorframe. She nearly cut his stomach, but Dara caught her wrist deftly, wrenching the knife from her grasp and shoving her towards the floor. She released a stream of what Dara recognized to be swears and clambered to her feet, straightening her skirts.

“Half succubus,” she said as though it were obvious. “A demoness disguised as a beautiful woman that lures you into her bed and then kills you.”

Dara blinked. “You’re a qarina?” 

“Haven’t heard that one before,” she mumbled. “And I’ve been called many things, mind you.”

Dara knew of this type of creature, but as far as he'd heard, they only visited their victims in their dreams, leaving the unfortunate man drained and fatigued in the morning. Apparently, in London, they were monsters that killed men under the guise of pleasure workers.

_This is truly a Creator-forsaken land._

The letter he would write Nahri about this place was getting longer and longer… 

“What are you?” Lilla echoed, folding her arms.

“A daeva.”

“Come again?”

“A daeva. A being of fire.”

Lilla’s head tilted to the side. “You don’t look like you’re made of fire.” A wicked grin spread on her lips. “You look like you’re made of finer stuff.”

Dara blanched. He wouldn’t be falling into her bed any time soon.

“Where are you from?”

“You’d know it as Persia,” Dara said, straightening his turban so it covered his ears again. 

“How come you speak English then?”

The corner of Dara’s lip lifted in a grimace. “You pick up tongues quickly after centuries of having to learn so many.”

“Centuries?” she gawked.

Dara waved an errant hand. “I have questions for you and if you answer them, I can ensure you are handsomely rewarded.”

Lilla’s eyes brightened as she crossed to the bed, lounging on it comfortably. Her movements reminded Dara of a cat. Perhaps she had more in common with the qarinas than she knew.

“Questions about Jack?”

“Jack?” Dara said, arching a dark brow.

“Yeah, the bloke who has been murdering us _fallen women,_ ” said Lilla with a dramatic flourish of her fingers. 

“His name is Jack? Does he have any titles?”

“No, his name isn’t Jack. That’s what he’s named himself.”

“Is this man named Jack or not?” Dara asked, growing impatient. 

“Blimey, we don’t know his real name. We call him lots of things. The Whitechapel Murderer. The Leather Apron. He named himself Jack the Ripper in his letters though.” Lilla shuddered slightly.

“He has written letters?”

“Oh, yeah, they’ve shown us three in the papers.” Lilla paused and Dara saw that clever smile spread on her lips again. “You out for him?”

“I’m out for something he might _have_ ,” Dara clarified.

“Well, he’s gone and killed my girls. He’s got a real taste for preying on us.” A fierce sort of malice flickered in her eyes, and for a moment Dara expected her to transform again, but instead, she said: “And I’d like to take him to bed for it.”

Silence hung in the air, so thick you could cut it with a knife. Dara let his racing mind catch up to his thoughts. So this murderer was targeting the women of pleasure houses. Women like Lilla. 

If that was the case, Lilla likely knew the victims and judging by her vigor, everything about the murders. Everything about the area, too. Even better - Dara’s end goal aligned with hers. He wanted the slave vessel that this Jack may be wielding, and she wanted Jack dead. 

Not to mention the time he would save with a guide that could actually _see_ him... The Creator was truly smiling upon Dara in this dreadful city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the story progresses and more characters are introduced I'd love to know who you all suspect to be Jack... This is, after all, a murder mystery...


	2. His Name is Jack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lilla brings Dara up to speed on what is happening in Whitechapel

In the comfort of room number eight, Lilla filled Dara in on the six victims of the Ripper - starting with the first murder of Emma Elizabeth Smith just seven months before Jack’s most recent victims: Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes - two women both slaughtered in the same night. Jack properly butchered each one and still managed to evade the police.

But that was nearly a month ago and Lilla suspected the Ripper, as she insisted on calling him, had not yet had his fill. That they should still be wary of him. Her fellow workers agreed.

Dara was also startled to learn Jack not only sent letters to the press, but he’d written a message on a wall in blood declaring “Jews” to be to blame for the current unfortunate state of London.

“And Jews are being blamed for all sorts of things,” said Lilla, pacing the short length of the room. “The economy crashing, liquor dependency, hell, even the increased death rate.”

This sounded all too familiar to Dara. Much like the blame the Nahids had placed on the shafit. From his seat on the bed, he shuddered at the thought. This case, it affected him in more ways than he had assumed - slave vessel or not. 

Lilla continued casting a stern look Dara’s way. “Mind you that my tatti was a Jew.”

“ _ Was _ ? Has he…” Dara suddenly felt that he wasn’t familiar enough with her to finish the thought.

“He passed six years ago. Failure of the lungs,” she said simply. “And before you ask about my mum, it was a matter of old age for her. She may have appeared a young thing but she told me she was centuries old before she died. Left behind a pretty corpse ten years ago, she did.”

Dara nodded. “So how old were you when you were... orphaned?”

“Old enough to put what my mum gave me to good use,” she said primly. “So that’s me. What about you, fire man?”

Dara felt a pang of panic in his stomach. He suppressed the feeling, swallowing the dryness in his throat. He would share the bare minimum with her. The Scourge didn’t need to be mentioned. He no longer existed and did not deserve a narrative in this story.

He explained to her the basics of ifrit slavery. That he thought it possible the "Ripper" might be using the slave as executioner and assisting him in evading law enforcement. Lilla pursed her lips, brows drawn together in concentration.

“Yes, that would explain a great deal. I’ve heard some suggest he’s being helped by the fae,” she muttered, rising from the bed. “Well, it’s too late to begin any investigation now. We could start in the afternoon tomorrow if you’d like.”

Ah, yes. She was half-human. She needed rest. Fine. A day’s delay was worth her valuable assistance. 

“Do you require an escort to your home? It is late,” Dara offered.

Lilla scoffed. “I may be the only girl in the East End that doesn’t require an escort. Besides, I’ve earned a roof tonight for having a client,” she said, gesturing to Dara. 

“Earned a roof?”

Lilla gave him a knowing look. “I don’t know a single girl who has a room of her own - one of us is lucky to rent a rope, to be frank. Well, aside from Mary Jane. She’s got a place. Only shares it with the men she takes. Can’t say I blame her though.”

Dara wasn’t quite certain as to what it meant to “rent a rope” and he had no idea who Mary Jane was, but he did understand that something as essential as shelter was not easily available to the residents of the East End. He wondered where Lilla stayed when she didn't have a customer. The thought distressed him, but looking her over he suspected it was rare that she wasn’t able to ensnare a man. 

“Very well. I’ll meet you here tomorrow afternoon,” Dara said, starting for the door.  
“Fire man,” Lilla said, grabbing his attention. When he turned he found her examining her nails. “There’s the matter of payment… which I owe to the house for lodging.”

It took Dara a moment to understand. Of course, Lilla had been more than helpful and paying her would be a worthwhile investment. Dara snapped his fingers conjuring a stack of coins along with a bowl of spiced rice and a cup of date wine on the bed. Lilla startled, covering her collar bone with a deceptively delicate hand.

“Will that suffice?” Dara asked, suppressing a satisfied smile at her reaction. 

“Yes, that about does her, sir,” Lilla grinned. She raised the cup of wine to him in salute. “Goodnight to you, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a wealth of knowledge on 1880s London if you can't tell


	3. The Ten Bells Pub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara and Lilla begin their quest to catch The Ripper

Dara found a rooftop where he could rest his head for the night - high above the odorous fog. Sleep did not come easily. After hearing the details of the grisly murders he couldn’t shut his eyes without seeing mutilated, faceless women. Then came the cries of the Scourge’s victims. All of the innocent men and women Dara had brutally silenced, haunting him until he eventually lapsed into a nightmare plagued slumber. 

It was almost noon the following day when a real voice rang loud and clear as a bell. It sounded like a child, just beneath him.

Dara walked to the roof’s edge, peering down. Indeed, there was a young boy beside a stack of what Dara recognized to be “newspapers.”

He shifted into smoke, planting himself in a nearby alley, obscured from the slowly growing crowd of Londoners. Likely making their way to whatever work they could find. Taking on his mortal form, Dara straightened his jacket and exited the alleyway, approaching the soot-faced boy whose words he could now make out as:

_ “Fallen woman in Spitalfields falls victim to Jack the Ripper in her own home! Most gruesome horror Whitechapel seen yet!” _

A man in a weathered hat stopped, tossing a few coins in the tin bucket at the boy’s feet, grabbing a paper, and continued on his way. 

Dara mimicked the man’s actions, conjuring a few coins in his palm (solid gold - he had no idea how much a newspaper was worth) and taking a paper of his own. The boy thanked him profusely and returned to his hoarse proclamations. 

While Dara couldn’t read the paper, he hoped Lilla would be able to. Perhaps it could aid them in their search. He was eager to meet her at the “brothel” and begin tracking down this butcher. This Scourge of London. He could only guess how enraged he would find his cambion associate. Another “girl” of her’s slaughtered - apparently the worst yet. Yes, Lilla would likely be in pieces at the news and Dara would have to help put her back together. That was fine. He was a patient man. 

It was quite easy to find his way back to her. The streets, while still crowded, were less packed than the previous day. His broad shoulders still managed to bump into the frail pedestrians but it was certainly easier to make his way down the bumpy road. 

When Dara arrived at the brothel he found Lilla leaning in the doorway. The eyes that he expected to be red or puffy were narrowed and blazed with fury. Her ruby red lips were pursed and the second she looked at him, she stormed forward and snatched the paper from his hands. Dara tried to gather himself.

“In her own home. Are we safe anywhere?” she growled, eyes skimming the paper. Lilla shook her head, then pointed at the large dark letters sprawled across the front page. “This is the one I told you about last night. Mary Jane. The one with a place of her own.” 

Dara blinked, still recovering from Lilla’s blunt reaction but also wondering if by some mystic occurrence they brought this fate upon Mary Jane. Lilla continued to read the paper, her lips moving silently in time with her eyes.

“Christ, this is useless. We won’t get details from the press for another week.” Lilla’s arms fell limply at her sides. “This gives us nothing to go on. It’s more of a penny dreadful than news.”

Dara sighed. He'd conjured gold for that paper. "So, should we visit her home?”

“No, the police will be swarming the place and they won’t breathe a word to us at a crime scene,” muttered Lilla. A smug smile spread on her face. “Lucky for us, I know a fellow that will likely have more to tell us than this can,” she said waving the paper. “He’s a part of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. The police usually share all their knowledge with them. Figure it’ll double the chances of catching the bloke. Especially since they’re the ones who told Constable Percy about how Schwartz saw Jack. That group can be counted upon.”

Dara tilted his head to the side. “You mean the Ripper has been sighted? Does this mean that we know what he looks like?”

“Well, according to the Committee, Israel couldn’t make out much - the dark and the fog make it impossible to see much of anything at night. No, all Jack did was shout the word ‘lipski’ at Israel causing him to run off in a hurry.”

“Lipski?”

“Yeah,” Lilla half growled. “It’s a slur for the refugees. Means a person from many places…”

_ Like ‘fire-worshippers’ or… sand flies. _

Dara flinched, doing his best not to count the similarities between him and Jack the Ripper. Instead, he crossed his arms, pretending to examine the passing crowd. 

“So where can we find this Committee?”

“The bloke I know is likely meeting with the rest of the members at the Ten Bells pub to discuss this latest attack.” Lilla wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders, raising her chin. “Come with me.”

She took a sharp turn around the brothel and down a cramped alleyway. Dara followed close by. To his pleasant surprise, the route she took was nearly vacant. They scarcely saw any more people as they maneuvered deeper into the maze-like pathways. She was turning out to be more and more useful by the minute.

“I don’t suppose you take the main roads often?”

“Only at night. In the day it’s quicker to take the alleys. Safer too,” she added. “See, you’re less likely to get pickpocketed when there’s no one around. Can’t have anyone stealing my hard-earned wages.” Lilla patted the pouch tied to her hip and glanced over her shoulder at him. “Trust me, Dara, you’re in good hands with me for a guide.”

He realized she reminded him much of Nahri. Street smart, suspicious, and hot-tempered. But there was something different about this particular sly orphan. Something softer. A sort of compassion that could only be born of someone with two affectionate parents. He could tell by her temperament that she gripped her empathy with white-knuckled hands. 

“Clara didn’t remember you last night,” Lilla remarked, stirring Dara from his thoughts. “Said she didn’t remember an ungodly handsome man in strange dress. Almost didn’t spare me a room until I handed over that coin you gave me.” Her voice was chiding. 

“Yes, it is difficult for humans to see daeva. Often they will simply forget we are there.”

She winked at him over her shoulder. “Hard to believe they’d forget a face like yours.”

_ Creator, she’s not Nahri… she’s worse. _

They turned down another narrow alleyway that Dara was certain wasn’t structurally sound, then out onto a street bustling with carriages. Lilla pointed at a tavern across the street that sat beside a white building Dara recognized as a temple of worship. He’d seen a few similar to it in France. 

“Don’t suppose you’re headin’ to church, eh?” a high pitched voice rasped. 

Dara and Lilla turned to the right, following the owner of the voice. Before them was an elderly woman in a frayed navy dress. A single wisp of silver hair had escaped the confines of her gauzy headscarf, brushing against the temple of her liver-spotted forehead. She pursed her lips at Lilla then abruptly spat at her feet. 

Dara opened his mouth to protest but Lilla released a long, laborious sigh that cut him off. 

“Good morning to you, Gertrude. On your way to the chapel I take it?” said Lilla in a sickeningly sweet voice.

“And you’re off to whore yourself at the pub?”

_ Suleiman’s eye...  _

Dara was lost for words. What had Lilla done to warrant such hostility from this woman?

Lilla placed a hand on Dara’s chest leaning, against him and taking him off guard. His eyes widened a little at the action. It wasn’t… entirely unpleasant. Lilla was certainly well practiced in her profession.

She beamed at Gertrude. “You guessed it. This is the lucky gent today. Gotta fit in whomever I can before the Ripper has his way with me. I’m sure you understand.”

Gertrude spat at Lilla again. “The Apron is doing God’s work, he is.  _ ‘Just as Sodom and Gomorrah and the surrounding cities, which likewise indulged in sexual immorality and pursued unnatural desire, serve as an example by undergoing a punishment of eternal fire.’ _ You remember that.”

“Mm, eternal fire, eh? Sounds a spot better than winter here…” Lilla said thoughtfully.

“Mark my words,  _ Jezebel _ . This city is falling apart because of women like you. We won’t be safe from God’s justice till each and every one of ya are gone from this earth.”

“You know,” Lilla began slowly. “Wasn’t your man’s son friends with one of us fallen women, back in the day? Mary something was her name I believe?”

Gertrude’s eyes narrowed. She opened her mouth to retort but seemed to come up short.

Lilla shrugged. “Something to consider next time you wish the Ripper on one of us.” She turned to Dara, drumming her fingers on his chest. “Alright, love. Let’s head to the pub so I may steal your virtue.”

Lilla looked both ways and jogged across the bustling street, Dara on her heels. He was still confused by the conversation. Gertrude sounded like a bit of a fanatic. Like the most devoted of the Daevas of his youth. Lilla seemed a kind sort to Dara, if only a little hot tempered. How could Gertrude overlook such character only to condemn the girl’s soul to “eternal fire”?

Regardless, Lilla didn’t seem concerned by Gertrude’s hurled insults. Dara took it that this was not an uncommon occurrence. After all, the two had seemed rather familiar. It was better not to mention it, especially if it didn’t bother her.

They arrived outside a quaint looking pub. Through the dusty, paned windows Dara could make out a small gathering within. Lilla opened the door and the soft tinkling of a bell sounded. She gestured for Dara to follow. 

Inside, the pub looked much like the other buildings that Dara had visited. Oil lamps mounted on the walls, a glossy mahogany bar surrounded by stools, multiple tables, and chairs jammed tightly together. Behind the bar a large man stood in front of a wall lined with various bottled liquors - he was polishing one of his many glasses. The man gave Lilla a nod, which she returned.

Lilla approached the group of customers Dara had spied through the windows. They were speaking in hushed tones and Dara could see pieces of parchment with hasty scrawls spread on the table. Maps, notes, newspapers, photos, drawings. Each patron - different in size, style, and demeanor - was pouring over them with a hungry look in their eyes.

A man sitting at the edge of the table looked up from a pocket notebook. He had sandy hair and though the edges of his face were sharp, his boyish smile suggested he was likely no more than twenty. 

“Lilla,” he said pleasantly. His hazel eyes flickered to Dara and the flash of concern in them didn’t go unnoticed. “Who’s this?”

Lilla placed a hand on Dara’s shoulder. “Thomas, this is my new friend, Dara. He’s an Inspector from Persia.”

“Oh, hello. It’s always nice to meet a friend of Lilla’s,” Thomas said with an apprehensive smile. He turned his attention back to Lilla, a frown on his lips. “I was so sorry to hear about Miss Mary Jane, Lilla. Were you two close?”

“Not as close as Catherine and I, but I knew her,” Lilla said, averting her gaze. “That’s why we’re here actually. Inspector Dara is looking into the Ripper case and I thought: who better to consult than the brightest of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee?”

Dara observed Thomas’s cheeks had turned pink. The man cleared his throat - muttering something about Lilla exaggerating before rising from his chair and approaching the two of them. He extended a hand to Dara. 

“A pleasure to meet you, Inspector. We’re always eager for whatever help we can get with Jack.”

Dara found himself charmed by the man. Thomas’s smile reached his eyes and his handshake was not necessarily firm, but genuine. Yes, Dara quite liked the look of him. Trust-worthy, he seemed. 

Thomas nodded towards a booth on the other side of the pub. “I don’t want to disturb my fellow committee members. Perhaps we can continue this conversation over there?”

Lilla looped her arm through Thomas’s. Dara hadn’t thought it was possible for the boy to turn any redder, but sure enough, his entire face was scarlet. Lilla murmured something to him with a wicked smile, Thomas chuckled quietly in response. 

The three slid into a booth, Thomas and Lilla on one side, Dara on the other. 

To Dara’s relief, Lilla did not stall. “So, Thomas, what can you tell us about Mary Jane? You talk with the Constable yet? Percy is always very liberal with you.”

“I did. First thing this morning.” Thomas removed the notebook he had been reading from the pocket of his black suit-jacket, cracking it open to one of the final pages. He muttered something about ‘running out of room.’ A macabre statement to say the least. “Alright, Miss Mary Jane Kelley…”

Dara instinctively leaned closer on the rickety table. For a moment, Thomas looked up, a bewildered stare on his face. Lilla must’ve noticed and remembered Dara’s remark about human’s having difficulty seeing him.

“Not to worry, Inspector Dara, I’ve got a good memory for details,” she said pointedly.

Thomas blinked out of his momentary daze, sobered by Lilla’s mention of Dara, and resumed reading his notes. “Miss Kelley was found in her apartment in Spitalfields, just as the papers said. 13 Miller’s Court at the back of Dorset to be precise.”

“That’s the place that used to be a parlor, yeah?” 

Thomas looked pleased and impressed. “That’s the one, Miss Lilla. Well spotted.”

This time  _ Lilla _ flushed. Dara's eyebrows shot up in surprise. He hadn’t imagined anyone could make the "half-succubus" blush like a new bride. Thomas continued:

“The resident above Mary Jane, an Elizabeth Prater, was awoken - as was her neighbor Sarah from 2 Miller’s Court - by someone calling out " _ murder _ " at around three-thirty to four in the morning. But of course, they didn’t react.”

“ _ Of course _ ?” Dara puzzled.

Thomas shrugged nonchalantly. “One hears someone announce a murder often in the East End.”

“Yeah, and Jack hasn’t struck in a bit. He typically gets the girls on the street too. Likely Elizabeth and Sarah didn’t suspect it was anything to do with the Ripper,” Lilla said with an errant wave of her hand.

Thomas smiled again, arching a brow at Lilla. “You sure I can’t convince you to join me on the committee, Miss Lilla?”

“Thomas, we both know I have my fill of your company without working with your lot,” winked Lilla.

Dara felt a little uncomfortable but mostly impatient for the conversation to continue. They needed information, not romantic banter. He drummed his fingers on the table, clearing his throat. Thomas looked away from Lilla abruptly, resuming reading his notebook.

“Mary Jane’s landlord sends his man Bower to collect the rent at about ten forty-five this morning. Mary Jane was six weeks behind, you see. He knocks and no one answers, so he looks through the window pane and sees…” Thomas stopped, looking slightly abashed. He turned to Lilla with a grimace. “I don’t have to continue, Miss Lilla.”

Lilla set her jaw, squaring her shoulders. “Don’t spare me the details, love.”

Thomas sighed resignedly. “Alright, Bower sees her body, all cut up like the rest of the girls, on her bed. He goes straight to Inspector Beck and tells him the Ripper struck again. Naturally, the press got wind and added a quick headline to their afternoon editions.” He leaned in closer to Dara and Lilla, lowering his voice. “But one thing the papers don't mention is that the coronary says the work Jack did on her must’ve taken hours. Make of that what you will.”

Dara saw Lilla swallow hard. He had the urge to place a comforting hand on her shoulder, but Thomas already had laid his fingers over hers, giving them a gentle squeeze. 

She offered him a wry smile, returning the gesture. “Don’t worry about me, Thomas. I can look out for myself.”

“All the same, Miss Lilla, I think it best if you stay at my place these next few nights. Don’t make me beg like last time.”

Lilla composed herself, but Dara could see through her bright expression. It was hollow. A mask designed for Thomas’s comfort. Perhaps even Dara’s. Thomas didn’t seem fooled though. His furrowed brows didn’t smooth. Lilla grabbed his chin with one of her hands.

“Alright, but only if I’m allowed to… earn my keep.”

“Miss Lilla,” Thomas stammered. “Your company is enough.”

“Isn’t he darling, Dara?” Lilla grinned.

“I suppose,” Dara said slowly. “You’ve been helpful, Thomas.”

“Of course.” Thomas pulled his face from Lilla’s grasp, rising from the table and straightening his tie. He offered a hand to her. “The Whitechapel Vigilance Committee is always glad to have more eyes on the street. Especially ones so useful as Miss Lilla. Always has a fresh eye for things, she does. Can count on her for most anything useful.”

Lilla accepted Thomas’s hand, standing from the booth. She placed a tender kiss on both sides of his face, adding a red stain to each cheek. Thomas nearly beamed and Dara couldn’t tell if he was more endeared or amused by the boy. 

“I don’t suppose my friend and I could head back to your place now, Thomas? Just for a lie-down?”

“Of course,” Thomas said, removing a brass key from his pocket. He placed it firmly in her palm. “You know the way.”

“Oh, yes I do,” she purred, giving him a final pat on the chest before strutting towards the exit. She motioned for Dara with a finger. “Come along, Dara.”

Dara and Lilla exited the tavern to find the streets much more crowded than when they had entered. The Afshin sighed in defeat. At least they’d be at Thomas’ soon. He and Lilla could be alone and he’d feel less like a ghost there, he imagined. 

Dara wondered how Thomas had felt when Lilla told him that she and he would be heading over to his home. Elated? Nervous? 

“That Thomas... He seems quite smitten with you,” Dara observed as they started down the road. 

Lilla moved with purposeful strides but Dara could see her chest swell a bit with pride. “Most men are.”

Not fooled by her attempt at indifference, Dara smirked. “You also seem quite taken with him.”

Lilla smiled with tight lips, almost as though she were embarrassed. Dara hadn’t thought she was capable of such an emotion. Then again, as Dara was only too aware, people behaved unpredictably when in love.

Lilla raised her shoulders as they passed a fruit stand run by an annoyingly vocal vendor. “Maybe I am. He’s a nice bloke.”

“Nice  _ looking _ too,” Dara remarked under his breath. 

“Ooh,” Lilla laughed. “Are you jealous, love?”

Dara scoffed. “Not in the slightest. I’ve just never heard of a qarina in love…”

“Half-succubus,” Lilla amended. She folded her hands over her waist, assuming an almost business-like stance. “Once we’re at Thomas’s we can discuss next steps. I have a few ideas on where to begin.”

That was good, because Dara certainly did not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note regarding the aforementioned first two victims, Annie and Martha: they are not "canon" victims. While during the Jack the Ripper murders these two women were assumed to be Jack's first two kills, it was determined many years later that they were probably not. I, however, am skeptical and believe it is highly likely they were also his victims


	4. The Edge of East End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara and Lilla reconvene at Thomas's place

Dara found that Thomas’s modest accommodations reminded him much of Jamshid’s quarters at the Pramukh estate. There wasn’t much by way of decoration except a simple vase of flowers. The walls were an eye-pleasing sky-blue. All the furnishings were contained to the single room and included a bed, a scarlet armchair by a small furnace, and a narrow table with a single stool. Dara could see a bookcase beside the solitary window where the afternoon sun streamed in, illuminating up dust-motes that filtered through the air. 

The moment Lilla had entered Thomas’s flat she took to the tiny corner which served as kitchen and began to make a kettle of tea. Dara expected the tangy and floral scent of the hibiscus tea that Nahri had been so fond of but instead was met with the smell of a strong and bitter mix of herbs. He sneered involuntarily in response, taking a seat on the stool.

“Fire man, I don’t suppose you’d like a cuppa yourself?”

“A what?” 

“A cuppa,” she repeated. “A cup of tea. Perhaps with cream or honey or-“

“No, definitely not,” the Afshin scoffed. He snapped his fingers and conjured a cup of date wine - not even half chagrined to be drinking so early. “You certainly know your way around Thomas’s place.”

There was a gentle clinking behind Dara that he recognized as a spoon stirring within a cup. He didn’t need to look at her to see that she was blushing at what he had insinuated. A moment later she came strolling into the room, sprawling out on the armchair.

“I stay with Thomas quite a bit. He cares about my girls and me. He even lets me blow off steam about work. Sometimes he’ll walk me here from Doxy’s if Constable Percy can’t,” She took a cautious sip of her tea. “But I earn my keep all the same. Either by updating him on the girls and their clients for his committee or… pleasing him in other ways.”

Dara did not miss the wicked glint in her eyes. He was momentarily stunned by the admission. Then again, he was growing accustomed to Lilla’s behavior. She was unashamedly herself and it was a quality he admired in a person. Even if she did speak crudely and had a complete disregard for decorum.

Eager to change the subject, Dare spoke up. “What does Thomas do for a living? Does that committee pay well?”

Lilla guffawed. “Christ, no. But if you haven’t noticed, Thomas  _ is _ on the edge of the East End.”

“Which means…”

“Which means he’s got money and the kind of money he has can’t be earned with hard work. I would know,” she drawled. “Thomas’s father was some sort of war hero. Got properly injured during the Boer War. Now he gets a tidy sum every month and gives a healthy amount to Thomas. Though to my understanding the checks are getting smaller with the population surplus.”

“And Thomas spends this currency on your services?”

Lilla fiddled with her teacup, taking another sip. She averted her eyes. “He used to. But we’ve since made another arrangement.”

“Of course, the lodging he provides you for information and… and…”

“Sex,” Lilla finished with a smirk. She sighed. “But after a while, it just felt strange to charge him.”

It was Dara’s turn to smirk. “Because you are smitten with him.”

Lilla blanched, setting her cup on the arm of her chair carefully. “That’s enough about my darling Thomas. We need to follow our next lead. I think we should head back to Doxy’s. That-“

“Doxy’s?” Dara interjected.

“Right, that’s the brothel we met at. Clara’s place.”

“If it’s Clara’s pleasure house why is it called Doxy’s?” 

Lilla rolled her eyes. “Because it is. You get awfully hung up on names.”

Dara took a swig of his wine. “If it belongs to Clara, then she should call it Clara’s.”

“We’ll agree to disagree, fire man,” she said flippantly. 

“Fine. Why should we go back to Doxy’s?”

“That’s where most of us girls get our work. Clara introduces us to clients, and when we can’t find them at the brothel, we try to track them down elsewhere. Sometimes even introducing ourselves to whatever mates they may have mentioned if we can’t find them.” Lilla folded her hands in her lap, her expression somber. “That’s where Catherine and I met. All six... well, now seven, of us frequented Doxy’s and talked to Clara. She’s gotta have some idea of who the victims were seeing. That’s a good place to start.”

Dara nodded in agreement. “Yes, it is likely this Jack is someone these women knew. Someone they believed they could trust.” He stood from the stool, nearly knocking it over, then threw back the rest of his wine. “Shall we be off?”

“Dara, we are not leaving this flat until I’ve been properly caffeinated,” Lilla said, raising her teacup. “Take a seat, sir, and do try not to break anything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is nice to have an outlet for my obsession with Dara and 1800s London


	5. Back to Doxy's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara and Lilla head to Doxy's in search of information

It was around three in the afternoon when Lilla’s back alley routes led them to Doxy’s. Dara found himself unexpectedly comforted by the familiar sight.

_ Creator, I’ve been here too long already. _

When they entered the pleasure house, Dara was caught off guard by an overwhelming odor. It wasn’t the smell of Lilla’s strong tea or the smoke that flooded London’s streets. No, it smelled of sweetness and fire. Lilla seemed to also acknowledge the scent. Her eyes flickered to the bar where Clara was stationed the previous day. It was unattended.

“Should we return later when Clara is present?”

Lilla shook her head, striding over to what appeared to be a pantry beside the bar. “No, Clara is here.” 

She pressed on the door with her fingertips and it cracked open. Dara could see through the opening that it was not a pantry at all. It seemed to contain a cramped staircase leading downwards.

“Come along, Dara dear.”

Dara grimaced at the term of endearment and followed Lilla. Leading the way seemed to be a pattern of her’s. Then again, she  _ was  _ his guide.

_ She also seems to enjoy being rather bossy. _

The staircase was foggy and the sweet scent only became stronger as they continued their descent. Dara tried not to breathe through his nose, the smell made his stomach churn.

At the bottom of the steps, Dara and Lilla faced a very dull looking room. The stone walls were lined with wooden bunk beds, two high. 

Each set of beds was occupied by men who appeared dazed. There were also some women Dara recognized from his first visit, lounging on cots that occupied the center of the room. One of the women was Clara.

She, like many of the room’s inhabitants, had a stick in her mouth, tipped with a black tar-like substance. Judging by the thin stream of smoke emitting from the end, this was the source of the smell. The sturdiness he had observed in her was absent now.

Dara realized very suddenly exactly what this was. Opium. He’d seen it during his journey to Japan when he’d passed through the land known as China. It was enjoyed in the privacy of homes to Dara’s understanding though. He wasn’t sure why Clara had these people hidden away beneath her establishment.

The confusion must have been evident as Lilla looked at Dara out of the corner of her eye.

“This is Clara’s opium den,” she muttered. “Clara, love!”

Clara’s distant gaze sobered as her eyes met Lilla’s. She offered a lazy smile before clambering off the cot.

“Alice, have a go, dear,” she said, surrendering her pipe to another woman beside her. Clara brushed off her skirts and staggered over to Lilla. She pointed to Dara. “Who have we here?” 

Ah, yes. Lilla had mentioned that Clara had forgotten all about him. 

Lilla placed her hand on Dara’s chest, a sly smile on her lips. “A potential client. But he had some questions for you first.”

Clara glanced at Dara. “Oh?”

Lilla inclined her head and lowered her voice. “Grim business I’m afraid, dear. He has some questions about our girls and Jack.”

Clara’s skin paled and Dara could tell all the effects of opium quickly abandoned her. 

She gave a fleeting look to her doped-up customers then nodded towards the staircase. “Come along. We can speak in my office.”

Dara and Lilla trailed after Clara, heading up the stairs and to the back of the lobby where a patterned curtain was hung in a door-frame. Pulling it aside, Clara urged them to enter in a hushed voice.

The room they stepped into featured a desk stacked with papers and a metal box. Behind the desk was a rather worn looking chair. Lilla perched herself on the corner of the desk, while Dara leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. Clara hurriedly took her seat.

“You’re not a policeman, are you?” Clara asked, casting a suspicious glare at Dara.

“No, this is Dara, Clara. He’s a detective of sorts. From Persia.”

“I see,” Clara murmured. “And you have questions about my girls?”

Dara nodded.

Clara sighed warily. “I knew them all. Martha, Mary Jane. They got clients from me, you see? I tried to give them a roof when I could. Sometimes I lent them money to rent a rope for the night. I’ve fallen on hard times here. That’s why I’ve got the den…” She patted the metal tin on her desk.

Dara saw that she appeared shame-faced at the admission. While he was repulsed by the lethargic husks he'd seen in the den and in China, Clara’s difficulties were sympathetic, at least. 

“Are there any suspicious characters, Clara? Clients that the victims may have shared?” Dara asked, his tone gentle.

Clara looked nervous, she knotted her fingers on top of her desk. 

Lilla frowned. “Clara, I know we don’t typically divulge that sort of information. I know it’s bad for business, but there’s a chance we can get Jack,” Lilla said in a soothing voice.

Dara wondered if her powers of seduction worked on women. Perhaps, if her passionate words didn’t help, she could fish the information out of Clara with her… natural ability. That was, if she was willing.

“Clara, please. Think of it. Our girls would be free to roam the streets again. They wouldn’t need a damn Constable to escort them home. Jack would be history.” She jabbed a thumb at Dara. “And this one is a good sort. He’ll see that Jack gets his due.”

_ More likely you will. He’ll be too enamored with your eyes to notice the horns... _

Clara shook her head as she looked at Dara. He could tell her memory of him was faster fleeting under the influence of opium. She paused for another moment, the wheels of her mind turning as she chewed her lip. Eventually, her hands fell limp onto her desk.

“Fine then. There is a gent I suspect. You’ll recall we suspended him from our services back in August. He beat one of our girls, Rebecca. Now he hangs around the pub just a few blocks north.”

Dara saw recognition flash in Lilla’s eyes. 

“Herbert,” she breathed. “That’s why he was suspended? For hitting Becca? Jesus, Clara I thought we cut him off because he wasn’t paid up!”

“I wish that had been the reason,” Clara said with a shake of her head. She looked up at Dara. “I won’t tolerate that behavior, so I put out the word about him. Banned him from Doxy’s. He’s got a violent streak.”

There was another pause. Dara noticed Lilla’s fists clenched in her lap - another bout of rage rising to the surface at the mention of this Herbert fellow.

“Was that helpful?” Clara said with a hopeful look in her eye.

“Most certainly.” Dara offered her a bow of gratitude. “You run a fine establishment and the work you do to keep your girls provided for is to be respected.”

Clara’s brows knitted together, Dara could see wetness in her eyes. “It’s just a shame I couldn’t help those girls. I’d do anything to bring them back, honest.”

Lilla reached for Clara’s hand on the desk, giving her fingers a tender squeeze as Thomas had with her earlier.

“We’ll set things right, Clara. I swear.”

Thank you’s were exchanged and Dara and Lilla headed back out onto the bustling street. The air was beginning to chill, Lilla wrapped her shawl higher up on her shoulders.

“We’ve got time for one last stop, I’d say. Let’s pay old Herbert a visit.”


	6. Herbert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara and Lilla question their first suspect

When they arrived at the "pub" Clara had indicated Herbert frequented, they were disappointed to find he wasn’t there. At Dara’s suggestion that they sit and wait, Lilla groaned and stalked over to the bartender. She placed a few coins from the pouch on her hip on the counter and ordered two pints of gin. The drink looked like a glass of water to Dara. 

“Why is it called djinn?” Dara asked from his seat in the booth.

Lilla joined him, her eyebrow raised quizzically. “I dunno. It just is. What’s wrong with it being called gin?”

Dara examined the glass, puzzled. These people certainly had an aptitude for naming things confusingly.

“Djinn is what humans call my kind… Some of my kind use it, too.”

“What did you say you were? A diva?”

“Daeva,” Dara corrected sternly.

“Hold on, djinn are the wish-granting blokes, right?”

“Sure,” Dara said flatly. “Now why is the drink called djinn?”

The corner up Lilla’s lip quirked up, she lifted her glass taking a long sip. Dara watched her swallow hard, puckering and exhaling sharply.

“Likely 'cause it feels like fire going down the hatch,” Lilla said hoarsely. “You try.”

Dara took an apprehensive sip of the drink. Sure enough, the liquid burned as it slid down his throat. Alcohol didn’t affect him nearly as strongly as it did humans, but he did feel light-headed momentarily. 

Dara grimaced. “The taste is unpleasant. Why would anyone consume a whole glass of this?”

Lilla raised her glass to him. “I saw it in your eyes. You feel it, right?”

Dara shrugged.

“Well, imagine downing a whole jug of that wine you’re so partial to. You’d likely lose hold of yourself, wouldn’t you?”

Dara had ingested an entire jug once and it had ended with a hazy encounter with a dancer in the palace corridors. 

“Yes, it made me forget myself.”

“Forget yourself and your troubles I’d bet.” Lilla took another drink. “The people here, we know what a sorry lot we are. We know that the hand we’ve been dealt is a bad one. But despite what you might hear at church or from the fine gentlemen of Piccadilly, there's nothing we can do about it. If you can’t fix it then all you can do is forget about it.” Her expression turned solemn. “I’m fortunate. I can get by, but many in the East End... aren’t quite so lucky.”

Dara looked about the pub, noticing that quite a few of the patrons were hunched over glasses of gin. He frowned, recalling the dismal scene at the first tavern he'd visited when he arrived. The grim atmosphere that had hung in the air. He wasn’t certain if he’d prefer a life here in London or the life of an ifrit slave. 

“You’re looking at me funny, Dara,” Lilla said pointedly. 

Dara realized that he’d fixed her with a look of concern, and he quickly smoothed his expression. 

“Apologies, it’s… well…”

“You feel bad for me?” she said with a sheepish smile. 

“I do not mean to insult you-”

“Oh, please.” Lilla waved a hand. “It’s a pathetic situation. A little pity never hurt anybody.”

Dara nodded, though he disagreed. He hated being pitied. It made him feel like his accomplishments had amounted to nothing. 

“But hey, at least I haven’t had to rent a rope in a while,” Lilla said.

“You keep saying that phrase. What does it mean?”

“It’s not a phrase, love. Beds are hard to come by here. Hell, even a floor can be considered a luxury.” A mirthless laugh escaped her red lips. “For two pennies, you can pay for a rope to drape yourself over and sleep on for a night.”

“Is it even possible to sleep in such a position?” Dara blurted.

Lilla tapped the rim of her glass. “You can overlook any situation with a glass of gin.”

“Lilla,” Dara said, his brows creasing. “The coins I conjured for you that night we met, there’s more where that came from.”

“Such concern for a fallen woman. You sound like Thomas,” she remarked with a grin. Lilla shook her head. “Dara you could conjure stacks of gold for every man, woman, and child in the East End and it wouldn’t help.”

“It wouldn’t?”

“Nope,” she said. “My father taught me a lot about economics. See, he wanted me to understand exactly what our people were being blamed for. That said, even if you rained pennies from the sky, they’d find a way to end up in the pockets of the men in Piccadilly.”

The words tumbled from Dara’s lips before he could stop himself. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you for your sympathies.” She raised her gin to him again, taking another swig. “But don’t feel sorry for me. I’m a lucky one.”

“I’ve lived for many years, Lilla. Nothing lasts. Nothing good or bad. Your people will come back around. I’m certain of it.”

“One day at a time,” she muttered. Her eyes flitted behind Dara in the direction of the entrance. “He’s here.”

Dara looked over his shoulder to see a balding, barrel-chested man with an unkempt mustache enter the pub. He carried himself in a proud way, large arms swaying as he approached the bar. Dara was briefly startled as he remembered this man beat women like Lilla. Dara knew his type. The type that got off on inflicting pain on the defenseless. It probably didn’t matter to Herbert if it was a pleasure worker or not - the fallen women were not the only ones he preyed on. 

When Dara looked back to Lilla she had a hand down the front of her bodice, appearing to be arranging her breasts. Dara immediately shunted his gaze, his face burning.

“Creator, Lilla, what are you doing?” he hissed.

“Just trust me,” she grumbled.

When Dara glanced back up at her she was studying the cleavage of her breasts with a look of mild approval. She then tucked a tendril of dark hair behind her ear and exited the booth.

“Be right back,” she whispered.

Dara adjusted himself to sit sideways in the booth, watching Lilla out of the corner of his eye. She approached the bar where Herbert stood, waiting for the bartender to finish pouring his drink. He looked at Lilla and smiled, saying a few words. Lilla barked a laugh that almost made Dara snort. It was nothing like the laugh he’d heard from her in the past. It sounded like a bell - intentionally delicate but entertained. She gave Herbert’s arm a playful swat, then leaned in closer.

_Is he truly so foolish to believe she is being genuine?_

After a moment, she nodded her head towards Dara. Herbert’s eyes drifted to him and a broad smile broke out on his face. Dara did not like his smile. It reminded him of a jackal. He forced himself to look away.

A few seconds later, Lilla was sliding back into her side of the booth, a cat-like grin on her lips. Herbert joined her with a tall, dark drink in hand. It took all of Dara’s will-power not to glare daggers at the burly brute. 

“So,” Herbert began, his voice like a rusty saw. “Lilla tells me you’re wanting the three of us to go over to my place. You’re interested in a bit of _mutual_ leisure?” 

Before Dara could form a hasty response to corroborate Lilla’s lie, she cut in. Literally. 

She removed Dara’s dagger from the folds of her skirt, pressing it into Herbert’s side, just enough to break the skin beneath his spot-stained shirt. The man yelped in surprise, drawing a few stares.

“Move a single inch and I’ll shove this up and through your ribs,” Lilla said, a pleasant smile still on her face. 

“God, I knew you were a bitch,” Herbert growled.

Dara’s temper flared, he placed his arms on the table and clenched his fists, popping his knuckles - ensuring that Herbert was aware that he was clearly outmatched here. Herbert exhaled, his expression irritated. 

“The fuck do you want with me, Lilla? I haven’t been to Clara’s in months. I don’t owe any of her whores shit. And besides, even if I did, what would you do? Tell the police?” 

Dara saw Lilla push the dagger in a little further, the innocent smile that didn’t reach her eyes not faltering a bit. 

“If I reported you to the police for anything, it would be for the murder of seven women. All of which you had your way with…”

Herbert looked briefly startled then more annoyed. “C’mon, what bloke hadn’t had Martha? And if you had Martha then you certainly had Elizabeth or Mary Jane! I’m not the only man in the East End who spent a night with those girls.”

“True, but you’re one of the only men with a habit of beating those girls,” Lilla said, her lip curling slightly.

“I ain’t never beat a woman that didn’t deserve it.”

Dara scowled at Herbert. “You’re fortunate it’s Lilla with a dagger to your ribs. If it were me then the contents of your stomach would already be in your lap.”

Herbert shivered, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “Look, I haven’t had a girl in months because of Clara spreading the word about me and my… preferences. Besides, I was already questioned by Constable Percy about the Ripper murders. I’m clean.”

“And if I were to speak with the Constable he would confirm that? You know that Constable Percy has a soft spot for us fallen women.”

“Yes,” Herbert snapped. “Go on up to the Yard yourself. He’ll tell you I’m innocent.”

Lilla leaned in, her lips brushing his cheek. “You know, I believe you.” She planted a firm kiss on his cheek, leaving a red mark on his face. “Leave my sight or my friend here will break each of your fingers one by one.”

“I’d do worse,” Dara interjected.

Herbert muttered a curse under his breath and exited the booth, grabbing his drink. Dara snapped his fingers and the glass shattered in his hands, liquid splashing on the floor. Herbert swore again and stalked back towards the bar.

Lilla’s chest was heaving, her eyes alight with fury. She slid out of her seat lithely and headed for the exit. Dara caught up with her. He didn’t understand how she could be moving so swiftly and with such confidence. He could barely see more than a few feet ahead of them now that the sun was setting and dense fog was bathing the streets. 

“We’ll go down to Scotland Yard to talk with Constable Percy tomorrow. I need to head back to Thomas’s.” 

Dara did not speak. He could almost feel her blood pulsing with anger. 

“If I’d known why Herbert was banned from Doxy’s I would have taken him to bed long ago,” she said through gritted teeth. “Whether he’s the Ripper or not, I’ll see he gets his due.”

“I don’t know that he’ll trust you after you shoved a dagger in his ribs,” Dara observed.

“I’m half succubus, remember? I can be very persuasive.” Lilla fumed. “I’ll see the piss frightened out of him before I slit his throat. I’ll bathe in his blood like all the rest.”

Alarmed, Dara paused in the street. Lilla faced him.

“Like all the rest?” 

“No one lays a finger on my girls or me,” she said, voice shaking with rage. “Constable Percy and his men are already tied up with the Ripper, not to mention the crimes against refugees. Someone has to see that we’re protected and Clara can’t do that from her opium den.” 

“Lilla, how many men have… made it to your bed?”

Lilla took a step closer to Dara, her jaw set defiantly. “A lot of men make it to my bed, fire man. Most leave it ready to return. The ones that don’t didn’t deserve to be there in the first place.” 

Dara wasn’t in a place to admonish murder - especially when he had dealt it out so senselessly in his youth. However, Lilla, with her clever smile and smart tongue, couldn’t be so violent. She was beautiful, she was witty, she was compassionate. He didn't like the idea of her taking lives as he once did.

“Lilla, you should leave that sort of justice to-”

“To _who_? The men who fritter their coins for a night of pleasure despite whoever is waiting at home for them? The churches that spit on us for getting by?”

“Lilla, I understand what it means to have blood on your hands and to never be able to wash them clean. Just… don’t become the monster you are attempting to defeat.”

Lilla’s face softened. “Nothing is black and white, Dara,” she said quietly. “I can be a monster for my girls and still have a soul.”

There was no point in arguing further. Dara once again reminded himself that with his history, he was in no position to offer guidance to Lilla. He was in no position to deem her actions as right or wrong.

“Take me back to Thomas’s, fire man. I’m tired.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can't tell, I love it when Dara is a himbo


	7. Widowers of London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara learns unfortunate truths about Whitechapel

The walk to Thomas’s apartment that evening was silent. It wasn’t until they’d reached the chipped, green front door of his building that Lilla instructed Dara to meet her here at dawn. From there they could make the trek to Scotland Yard, where this Constable Percy and his fellow guardsmen could be located. 

Lilla’s admission still shook Dara, and as he made his way over to the stoop outside of Thomas’s building the following morning, a part of him worried that Lilla wouldn't show up. Their conversation the night before had gotten heated. Perhaps this drink "djinn" imparted the imbiber with its namesake's famous temper.

_ I will never consume a single drop of that karkadann piss again. _

The Afshin crossed his arms over his chest, eyes staring distantly at the slowly forming crowd making their way down the street. He felt very exposed, which was quite unusual given that no one could look at him and remember it. 

If he were Lilla, he probably wouldn’t turn up this morning.Who would want to work with a judgemental old Daeva? Not him. 

Dara frowned. He wondered at what point it would be appropriate to seek her out.

The door swung open. Dara cautiously turned his head to see if it was Lilla. 

Sure enough, she was walking out onto the front steps, Thomas leaning in the doorway. She muttered a word of thanks to him then said something else that turned his face crimson. Dara moved closer hesitantly.

“Lilla, give my best to Percy, won’t you? Tell him the Committee can never have too much information.”

Lilla grabbed Thomas’s collar, tugging him closer to her. She smiled. Dara now very much regretted stepping closer.

“And what do I get as payment?”

“If we’re careful of my land-lady, corned beef and a warm bed for tonight,” Thomas said sheepishly, before ducking back inside. 

The door shut and Lilla seemed to stare at it a moment longer than necessary, the barest smile on her lips. Dara had no doubt that the man had likely stolen her heart. He understood what it was like to lose yourself in someone. Just because she had a… violent streak… didn’t make her incapable of love.

_ Don’t dwell on her personal affairs. You are here to save a slave. _

Dara cleared his throat, making his presence known.

Lilla turned to face him, delicate brows raised. “Oh, you’re here.”

Dara was surprised to hear her voice as casual as ever - as though she had not just admitted last night to be a murderous vigilante.

“It’s a bit of a walk to Charing Cross. We shouldn’t waste time.” 

She set off at a brisk pace down the road, Dara easily matching her stride. He wondered if he should breach the topic of last night, to clear the air. In the end, he decided against it. Lilla and he were similar, and if he were in her shoes, he would not want to discuss it further. 

“You are certain that your constable will be in this yard?”

“ _ Scotland  _ Yard,” Lilla corrected. “And yes. Percy is always neck-deep in work. Prefers it that way, I think. His wife died during childbirth, his son not long after.”

The casual manner with which she said it made Dara’s brows furrow. 

She grimaced at him. “I told you the death rate was high. Another thing they blame Jews for. You’ll find many widowers in London.” Her tone was wistful. “And it’s not uncommon for children to die in a city so brimming with fog and pestilence.”

“Yes, what is the cause of this… foul air?” Dara sneered.

“Christ, only everything that keeps the city running. Coal, fire-spits, smoke from the factories. We can’t very well put a stop to it without going back to the stone ages,” muttered Lilla. “I need some breakfast. You hungry?”

“I could conjure something.”

Lilla shook her head. “Naw, I’m in the mood for this one stand right by the Yard. This vendor sells bread rolls the size of your fist.” She threw a pointed look his way. “But if you’d like to conjure me some coins I would not refuse.”

Dara smirked, snapping his fingers and summoning a few coins he recognized from her pouch in his palm. He handed them over and she accepted with a curtsy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1880s Whitechapel is a big mood...


	8. At the Yard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara and Lilla receive a tip from Constable Percy

The walk to Charing Cross was indeed long. Dara was surprised that Lilla didn’t seem the slightest bit fatigued when they finally arrived. 

She informed him that this area was referred to as “The Strand.” It was busier than Whitechapel, but somehow not nearly as crowded. Dara even saw one of those raucous automobiles wheel by. There were carriages and wagons and carts moving in an organized fashion through the streets. On the sidewalks, people had ample room to maneuver around each other.

Well, at least more room than in Whitechapel.

They were drawing a lot of eyes, and for a moment Dara thought it was his colorful dress. But no, he was still invisible. It was Lilla who was attracting the stares, sneers, and frowns. Looking about he observed there was indeed no one else dressed like her. She was an outsider in her own city. She didn’t seem to mind though.

_ Perhaps she likes the attention. _

“The vendor I told you about is right over there,” she said pointing to a small stand under a tattered tarp.

Dara followed her across the street. She handed the merchant a few coins and in exchange received what appeared to be a soft, steaming roll of bread. Lilla plucked off a piece offering it to Dara. He accepted and took a bite. 

The Afshin frowned as he chewed. It was blander than manna. He wrinkled his nose and tried to think of a polite response, but Lilla was already snickering.

“Alright then, fire man. I won’t make you try anymore English food.”

“You all might be a bit less miserable if your food had any flavor,” he scowled. 

Lilla pointed down the road. “The Yard is just that way. Come along.”

Scotland Yard was not a yard. It was a building not unlike many others Dara had observed in London, blocky and dull. There was a tall wrought-iron gate beneath an arch framed by two men in uniform. Constables. 

For a moment, Dara thought their appearance might present a problem, but the two men merely smiled at Lilla and offered nods of greeting. Dara wondered if this was a result of her particular  _ talents _ , or if she simply had a way with people. 

“The policemen have a soft spot for us girls lately. Not everyone is like Gertrude,” she grinned. “Likely, they think I have a tip for them. Not to mention, Constable Percy has taken a liking to me.”

“You don’t say,” Dara deadpanned.

Lilla’s head tilted back as she barked out a laugh and Dara found it hard to believe this was the same girl who had held a dagger to a man’s ribs only yesterday. 

They continued down a long, gravel walk into a courtyard where more policemen milled about. They all had similar reactions to Lilla as the two guards out front. 

“Constable Percy is usually in the back, trying to get work done,” she muttered as they approached a set of paned doors. Lilla opened both grandly and walked into the building with her chin held high, Dara just behind her. 

The interior was a stark contrast to all of the places Dara had visited in the East End. The walls were glossy and black, polished sconces mounted every few feet. A feeling of urgency permeated everything. Multiple mahogany desks were occupied by men either on telephones or reading paperwork aloud. 

Lilla scanned the room for a moment, then her eyes lit up. 

She pointed to a countertop where three men in uniform stood. “That’s him. The tall, blonde in the middle. Constable Percy!” 

The man, along with his two colleagues, turned with eyebrows raised. Lilla waved, her expression a charming smile. Percy waved back and murmured something to the men beside him. They seemed to reach an agreement before walking away, down a hallway and out of sight. Percy wove his way between the desks, joining Lilla and Dara by the door. 

He looked momentarily alarmed. Dara couldn’t blame him. So far, Dara had been given the overwhelming impression that Londoners did not care for anything that felt out of place. Much less a man with Dara’s... appearance. 

To his credit, Percy quickly corrected himself, offering the two a warm smile. “Who do we have here, Miss Lilla?”

“This is my Inspector friend from Persia. Dara, this is Constable Percy,” she said cheerfully. “Percy’s very helpful to us girls. Even escorts some of us home at night.”

The man blushed scarlet. Dara offered the Constable a respectful bow.

“Good to meet you, Inspector Dara. You’re from Persia, are you?”

“That’s correct.”

“I imagine this is nasty weather for you. It’s probably a bit warmer there.”

Glad to be asked about his home, Dara answered the man. “That depends on where you are. Although I have not seen this sort of atmosphere before.”

“Ah, the fog,” the Constable said, shaking his head. “Getting worse all the time. Certainly doesn’t help us in finding Jack. He uses the smoke to his advantage, I suspect, to cover his escape.”

Dara made a mental note of the remark. Of course, if Jack's victims died at the hands of an ifrit slave, then there was more than mere fog at work here. He wondered if an otherworldly explanation had occurred to the Constable. If he'd learned anything about humans, it was that they often ignored what they couldn't explain.

He could sympathize. Knowing the cause through and through made people feel more in control of the situation, no matter how  _ out of control _ it actually was. 

“How can I help you today, Miss Lilla?” Percy asked.

“Inspector Dara is assisting the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee in their hunt for Jack. Thomas suggested that we find out if you could be of any assistance.”

Dara had to hand it to Lilla, she certainly had a silver tongue. She seemed to know exactly what to say to whoever she was speaking with to get her way. 

“I see. I’m always glad for whatever help we can get. Let’s take a seat over there,” Percy said, gesturing to a set of dark, wooden benches.

Dara and Lilla sat side by side on a bench pushed back against a window, Percy leaned on the wall across from them. He removed his circular spectacles, cleaning them with the tail of his shirt. Looking at his eyes, Dara thought of a shark. Percy appeared keen, observant. He vaguely reminded Dara of his father, Artash.

“Right, so I’ll give you what we know about Miss Kelley. The crime scene produced no leads. Not a single neighbor caught the face of the man she led up to her flat. All we could tell for certain was that the... damage to the victim… was spot on with Jack’s profile,” he explained. “But unlike with Miss Eddowes - and again, Miss Lilla, my condolences. You two were very close, I understand.”

Dara frowned, eyes flicking to Lilla who raised a hand as though to dismiss the thought of pity. 

Percy continued:

“Like I was saying, there was nothing like what we saw with Miss Eddowes. No letter, no nothing. It was peculiar to me, as he had practically unlimited time with Miss Kelley. He had ample opportunity to leave us another message.”

“Another message blaming Jews for his crimes?” Dara interjected.

“Ah, I see Miss Lilla has you caught up,” Percy said with a wry smile. “Yes, he left nothing of the sort. Though I will admit, lately Jack seems ardent about sending some sort of message about the Jews - what with the graffiti and such.”

“What do you make of the motive, Constable? Some also say Jack’s a religious one, bringing the wrath of God upon us girls.”

Percy exhaled. “Yes, that’s another popular theory. We’ve explored suspects for both avenues. Came across one recently, but didn’t have enough to back up questioning him…”

“Who?” Dara asked.

Percy looked to Dara, the same sheepish smile on his lips. He appeared to be carefully considering his response.

“Come on, Percy,” Lilla pouted. “You can tell us. If you can’t question him within the confines of the Queen’s law... then maybe we can do it for you.”

The Constable casted a surreptitious glance over his shoulder to see if anyone was listening. After a moment, he crossed to the wall that Dara and Lilla sat against, looking down at them and lowering his voice.

“Hugh the bartender.”

“Hugh?” Lilla whispered. “From Horn of Plenty?”

“That’s the one.”

“But why? He hasn’t even touched one of us in years.”

Percy looked about again. “You know why?”

Lilla shook her head.

“Tell Thomas to keep this quiet,” said Percy sternly. “Hugh’s a widower, yeah? Wife took her own life?”

“Do you expect foul play?” Lilla asked, her tone almost excited.

Percy shook his head. “No. Old girl left a note for Hugh. She found out he’d been frequenting Doxy’s. Broke her heart, it did. So she hung herself. Said in her letter it was Hugh's fault, that she wouldn’t be put out on the street because of him frittering away his coins on fallen women. She wouldn’t be divorced and made to sell herself because he had a wandering… well...”

“So he now has it out for pleasure workers?” Dara said.

Percy shrugged. “It was our only lead. Mary Jane was drinking at his pub before she went back to her place. As I said, it was too slim a hunch for us to follow up on, but if two citizens were to approach Hugh out of concern… that’s an entirely different matter.”

Lilla smiled wickedly at the Constable, extending a hand to him. He helped her to her feet. 

“As usual, Percy, you’re a gem,” she said.

A few more goodbyes were exchanged, then Dara and Lilla were back off to Whitechapel. Dara was surprised at her seemingly boundless energy. Perhaps it was a cambion thing. No human could walk so far unfatigued. Especially wearing those shoes.

“That’s a real shame. I didn’t know Hugh’s wife killed herself on account of his visits to us. A lot of men do tend to get carried away with us girls, but not him. It was always strictly business.”

“And why could he not do this 'business' with his wife?” Dara asked.

Lilla raised her shoulders. “That’s not part of my job. Would make my work more difficult if I knew the workings of my client’s home-life. Might be tempted to get cross with them.”

“Knowing this barman, did you think it likely he would butcher your colleagues?”

“Colleagues,” Lilla murmured, smiling to herself. 

“That is what they are, are they not?”

“Most just call us whores.”

“Hmph. When I was young, even royalty took to pleasure houses.”

Lilla snickered. “Oh, love, they still do.” 


	9. The Horny of Plenty Pub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara and Lilla question Hugh

The Horn of Plenty Pub looked much like the Ten Bells pub. Mismatched chairs and tables, a glossy bar surrounded by stools and backed by a wall of liquor. An abundance of candles and oil lamps for lighting. But this was the view from just outside. The pub would not open for another half hour. 

“Perfect. Then we’ll just wait for Hugh out here,” Lilla had remarked optimistically. 

She took a seat on the corner of the sidewalk, propping her elbows on her knees. Dara joined her. The smokey air was a little thinner, and for that he was grateful.

“So when you get this slave vessel of yours, what will you do next?” Lilla asked.

“Take it back to my home to see that the poor soul bound to it is freed. Then I’ll begin the next hunt.”

“Do you ever get homesick?”

“Yes, often,” Dara said, without hesitation. He grinned at her. “Especially when I’m in a city so grim.”

“Such disdain for this sparkling, pristine town of mine... What’s your home like?”

“I’ve been away for some time. I’m not certain what it's like now.”

“Well, what did you like about it?”

Dara stared into the middle distance. “It was very warm. I was surrounded by my people. There was fog, but not like this. Mistier. The sunlight made it sparkle.” Dara blinked out of his trance and looked to Lilla with a rakish smile. “And the food had flavor…”

Lilla snorted. “Alright, fire man. What am I missing out on, hm? I tried your rice and it’s nothing so fantastic.

“There’s stuffed peppers. Saffron Pudding. Buttery lentil soup. Wine and tahini.”

“Well, you’ll have to make me some with that fire magic of yours,” she said diplomatically. “As a matter of payment for my assistance.”

He held out his hand to her. She took it, shaking firmly. 

“This is a most taxing bargain, but I accept your terms, jewel.”

A few moments later there was a discontented growl above them. Lilla and Dara looked up to see a dark-haired man with a prematurely lined face, staring down at them. 

“I’m trying to open up and you’re in front of my door…” he trailed off. “You’re one of Clara’s girls.”

Lilla stood to her feet, tucking an escaped lock of dark hair behind her ear. “Hello, Hugh.”

“And what is it you want?” he said, expression unreadable. “I don’t use you girls’ services anymore and I don’t know anything about Mary Jane. Didn’t even notice she was there that night. We were too busy.” Hugh’s firm gaze shifted to Dara - he blinked in surprise. “Where'd you come from? You one of her lot? A gent worker?”

“I’m an inspector from Persia.”

Dara surprised himself at how naturally the lie came to him. He saw Lilla smile approvingly at him out of the corner of his eye.

“I-I don’t want any trouble, alright?” Hugh stammered. “Listen, I know I can be rather… outspoken about how I disapprove of your lot, Lilla, but I’d never wish death on you. Ain’t a soul in Whitechapel that isn’t doing their best to just get by.”

Dara tried to gauge the authenticity of the man’s response by looking at Lilla. She seemed… appeased. Hugh continued all the same.

“My wife,” he began, voice cracking slightly. “My wife killed herself for fear I’d leave her. Frightened she’d have to live like one of you. It’s a rough enough life you girls are resigned to without having to fear you’ll be slaughtered in the streets. I ain’t a murderer. I swear to you.”

Lilla’s lips were in a flat line, but Dara could see softness in his eyes. The Afshin wasn’t so easily satisfied. This man blatantly encouraged the distaste of women like Lilla - women he understood had fallen on hard times - simply because his actions had caught up with him. 

“You become a widower due to your own indiscretion and decide it is only fair to place the blame upon people you recognize as defenseless?” Dara said sharply, tilting his head to the side.

Hugh struggled to form words.

“Do you consider yourself a victim?" Dara went on. "Do you not think that sharing your distaste for women like Lilla encourages the Ripper? From what I know of you, you may even think this Ripper a hero-”

“Dara, leave it, leave it,” Lilla said, her tone delicate. She looked back to Hugh. “That’s all, Hugh. Have a lovely day.”

“I’m - I’m sorry,” the man managed, appearing unsure as to whether he should look at Dara or Lilla. He fumbled with a set of keys, hastily trying to unlock the door to the pub. “Truly, I’m sorry…”

Lilla grabbed Dara by the arm, her grip commanding but tender. She guided him away from Hugh and into a nearby alley. 

There was a ringing in Dara’s ears. His face was hot (hotter than usual) with anger. The Ripper was a monster. Lilla was a monster. Hugh was a monster. And what was Dara? He was worse than all of them put together. Who was he to snarl accusations at Hugh? Who was he to tell Lilla yesterday that her method of justice was wrong? He was no better than the Ripper and even if he managed to stop him, it was only the first in a long line of retributions he would have to make to earn his spot in paradise and -

_ “Dara!” _

Dara blinked at the sound of his name. He saw Lilla standing before him and slowly the ringing subsided.

“Welcome back. You alright?” she said. 

Dara tried to collect himself. “Just… I’ve lived a long life. Sometimes it catches up with me.”

Lilla wore a sad smile on her ruby red lips. “Well, that’s alright. We all got a past, don’t we?”

“Me more than most,” Dara admitted with a shake of his head. “The things I have done-”

Lilla shushed him before he could continue. “I don't know what you’ve done, just what you're doing. And right now, what we’re doing is important and good. So let’s not worry about the past now, alright, fire man? I don’t have time for that. My  _ girls  _ don’t have time for that.”

It took Dara a moment to steady his breathing, but eventually, his shoulders relaxed.

“Let us make sure that Jack doesn’t have time either,” Dara said, his voice hoarse.

Lilla’s lips tilted up in that familiar smile that reached her clever eyes. “That’s what I like to hear.”


	10. A Study in Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara and Lilla review what they know at Thomas's

It was around eleven in the morning when Dara and Lilla made it back to Thomas’s. He was absent, apparently off to have lunch with his parents. This seemed to please Lilla, apparently these lunches usually resulted in Thomas bringing her back pies or corned beef or a number of foods that sounded unappetizing.

_ Can't imagine why she's so excited about meat, bread, and potatoes... _

After climbing the creaking stairs two floors up, they slipped into the apartment and the cambion immediately set to making more of her foul-smelling tea. When she offered Dara a cup he refused yet again. He’d already indulged her and her bland bread, he wasn’t in the mood to try anything else she deemed delicious.

“Alright, so I really don’t think it’s Hugh and I know that it seems like we’ve run out of options, but lucky for us, I know everything about this sort of situation,” Lilla said, striding towards the bookcase by the window. 

Her graceful fingers slid along the spines before she plucked one of the books out and presented it to Dara. He squinted from his seat on the stool across the room. The book was crimson with a man’s face printed in black on the cover. He couldn’t read the words embossed across the top though.

“That doesn’t mean anything to me,” Dara said with a limp gesture at the book. 

She looked at the cover, her expression nonplussed. “Sherlock Holmes?  _ A Study in Scarlet _ ?” she said, arching a brow. “It’s all the buzz lately. You know, Arthur Conan Doyle?”

“Again, none of that means anything to me.”

Lilla placed the book back on the shelf then pointed at another row of books. “You haven’t read any Penny Dreadfuls either?”

“This may be a surprise, but as an ifrit hunting fire-being I don’t do much reading for leisure,” Dara said flatly. “What is Sherlock Holmes? What is there to learn about scarlet? How does any of that apply?”

Lilla collapsed into the armchair with her tea, carefully ensuring none of it spilled. She shook her head at him disapprovingly.

“You’re no fun. At all.” Lilla took a steady drink from her steaming cup. “Sherlock is a detective. He solves murders with his doctor friend, Watson.”

“Should we enlist Sherlock’s help?”

Lilla snorted. “He isn’t real.”

Dara paused, brows knitting together. “Is Watson real?”

“Dara. It’s a  _ story.  _ A tall tale.”

The Afshin massaged the bridge of his nose, slowly losing patience. “How is it relevant?”

Lilla’s expression was thoughtful as she continued sipping her tea. “I wonder which one of us is Sherlock and which one is Watson…”

“Lilla.”

“I actually fancy Watson. He’s a little dim and not as fit as Holmes but there’s just something about him, you know?”

_ Creator. We’re never going to- _

“I reckon we’re both Sherlock… which is good.”

“Lilla.”

“Right, I had a point. I promise.” She slurped some more of her drink, then set it down. “So, just before they catch whoever the killer is in murder stories they always hit a dead-end where it seems like all is lost. I reckon with Hugh we just hit our dead-end!”

“How comforting…”

Lilla’s eyes were alight with excitement. “Which means we’ve almost got him!”

“Or her,” Dara amended.

Lilla nodded in agreement. She reached beneath the cushion of the arm-chair and removed a weathered, green notebook and a stick that Dara recognized as a newly invented and popular writing utensil. Lilla followed Dara’s gaze to the pen and notebook then smiled.

“Nice, right? Thomas bought them for me.”

“It is impressive that you know how to write,” remarked Dara.

Lilla thumbed through the pages of the notebook, a few newspaper clippings falling out onto her lap. “Thanks. Mum taught me English. Father taught me Yiddish. Though I only use Yiddish when I’m in a foul mood,” she murmured. “Come over here.”

Dara obeyed, crossing the room with his stool to sit before her. She handed him four newspaper clippings. Before Dara could remind Lilla that he couldn't read she launched into an explanation.

“I’ve saved plenty of articles about Jack, but these are the letters. First one,” she said, pointing to the clip on top, “is from the end of September. Titled ‘ _ Dear Boss.’  _ He claims to have saved a bottle of blood to write this letter in, but it got too thick so he used red ink instead. He spends the majority of the letter having a laugh at the police, gloating about how he’ll never be caught and how he’s eager to try again. There are two important things here. One, where he says that he’ll clip off his next victim’s ears and send them in. Two, the spelling and punctuation errors…” 

“Why does his grammar matter?”

“Well, it tells us he's likely uneducated, which narrows it down. Won’t be anyone well-off. Or, he could be intentionally misspelling things to frame refugees whose first language isn’t English, like us Jews.”

Dara nodded. “And why is the ear thing important?”

Lilla’s jaw twitched. He thought to ask her what was wrong but she’d already moved forward.

“A few days after the press got this letter there was that double murder I mentioned. Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes. When they inspected Catherine’s body they found a knick on her ear… like someone tried to cut it off but was interrupted.”

“This is the murder where that man heard the Ripper yell a slur?”

Lilla bobbed her head. “Now what’s more,” she said, taking away the top newspaper clipping and directing Dara’s attention to the next one. “We see those spelling mistakes again in that blood writing on the wall I mentioned. The one the police ran across after they found Catherine and Elizabeth. There, Jack spells ‘jew’ wrong. His punctuation is off too. It’s a proper mess.”

“If they wrote that then it rules out the Ripper being a jew.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Lilla said with a grimace. “You’d be surprised at how men can turn on their own people…” She showed Dara the third clip. “Now this clip is from one of his two October letters. The ‘ _ Saucy Jack _ ’ letter. He sent it in on a postcard. Blood smudged on it. He says that… Catherine screamed and got the police before he could hack off the rest of her ear.”

“And the second October letter?”

“That’s the most recent one… the worst one… The ‘ _ From Hell _ ’ letter.”

Dara shuddered slightly. “I can’t imagine they get worse than having blood on-”

“This one came with half a kidney,” Lilla said with a look. “And Catherine was missing hers.”

More than once, Dara'd heard it mentioned that Lilla and Catherine had been close. He wanted to comfort her, but the way her jaw was set and the determination in her eyes told him that kind words would do her little good. Perhaps she, like him, would only find comfort in action.

“What’s got Thomas shaken about this last one is that it was addressed to the President of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, George Lusk.”

Dara sat up a bit straight at the news. “Jack is threatened by this committee…”

“Perhaps more so than the police. The fact that Jack knows the name of the President of the Committee at least tells us that he’s taken the time to look into them.” Lilla began scribbling in her notebook. “Alright. We should write down suspicious persons, but first, let’s discuss what makes a good killer.”

Dara handed the clips back to Lilla and arched a skeptical brow, an amused smile on his lips. “I doubt Jack takes his victims to bed. Or are you also expert in other kinds of murder?”

“Oh, Lord, no. Without my magic I'd make a piss poor killer. My temper tends to get away from me,” she said with a grin. “No, I know from my books what makes a good killer.”

“Didn’t you say that your books are just tall tales?”

Lilla pointed her pen at Dara menacingly. “There’s a bit of truth to every tall tale, fire man.”

Surrendering, Dara shrugged his shoulders and stood, starting to pace the very short length of the room. “Alright, educate me, Lilla. What makes a good killer?”

“Lucky for you I’ve got them all written down,” Lilla said primly. She cleared her throat, tapping the end of her pen to the paper in her notebook. “First, the killer is often someone their victims felt they could trust - someone they felt safe enough to be alone with. Next, they have to have some sort of control over the narrative, when the story gets out - maybe they’re in the same line of work as the victim, maybe they write for the local paper.”

“So they can steer the story wherever they want it to go?”

“Well, done, Sherlock,” Lilla beamed. “Alright third, they have to have inside knowledge. That could be by having friends on the inside or maybe they’ve hired a spy… Next, they need to have the potential to be violent. For instance, they’re young or quick or maybe they have an associate that is strong. It could be a frail old man, but if he has a thuggish nephew or a knowledge of incendiary devices he’s dangerous.”

“Or he could have a powerful ifrit slave.”

“That too,” Lilla said, jotting something down in her notebook. “Alright, they need to have a motive,  _ obviously _ ... And finally, their continued success is due either to incredible anger, quick wits… or they may be a ghost. Depends on what you’re reading.”

Dara cocked his head to the side. “ _ Or _ perhaps they have an all-powerful ifrit slave.”

“Sharp as a tack, you are.”

His remark had been sardonic, but still Dara found himself blushing. The appeal of Lilla’s praise was dangerous. She was quickly becoming more than an associate to him. She felt like a friend. 

“Okay,” Lilla said abruptly, snatching Dara out of his train of thought. She turned a page in her notebook and began scribbling with her pen again. “Suspects. Let’s start with the obvious. Herbert. We know he has a violent streak. He’s capable of doing damage.”

“And he has a motive. You’ve banned him from your pleasure house.”

“Indeed, and just because the police couldn't find anything on him, doesn’t make him innocent. But… oh,” Lilla sighed.

“What?”

“Not one of the girls would have gone with him. Clara said she’d put the word out about him being a beater a while back. Mary Jane was smart with her clients. She wouldn’t have gone with Herbert. Neither would Catherine.”

“Unless,” Dara began. “He used his slave to get at them.”

Lilla chewed her lip and continued to write, finishing one sentence with a flourish. “Okay, next suspect?”

Dara leaned against the wall in front of the furnace. “Hugh.”

Lilla looked troubled. “I dunno…”

“Lilla, he has a motive. He likely thinks the more pleasure workers there are the more wives will end up hanging themselves! Not to mention, he works at the last place that Mary Jane was seen.”

“No, I don’t think it’s him.” Lilla chewed her lip. “Hugh isn’t violent… he’s just sad is all.”

_ “Lilla.” _

“Dara, trust me.”

“Listen to your own logic! It sounds like you would have  _ trusted _ Hugh enough to go away with him. You think he’s harmless.”

“Well, that’s not to say that all the girls would. I’m a bit tougher than most, if you recall. Besides, none of the girls have seen him in a long time-”

“Maybe because all of the girls he has solicited services from have been killed.”

Lilla took a deep breath through her nose. She was silent for a few moments before she spoke again. “No. I’m going with my gut with this one. It’s not Hugh. But you could question him if you like...”

Dara was tempted, but Lilla seemed confident, and she knew the man better than he did. It wasn't like he could go interrogating every man who ever spoke ill of a woman at Doxy's. He'd have to trust her judgement

“Let’s think, Dara. Who would the girls have trusted? Who could be violent? Who has insider knowledge?”

Dara winced and spoke his next words cautiously. “What about… Clara?”

To his surprise, Lilla didn't immediately react. Her expression was blank.

“Opium makes you pretty lethargic but… it can mess with the mind. And the girls trust her. She knows where we all are…” 

Another moment passed. Dara watched Lilla closely. She blinked, seeming almost annoyed with herself.

“No, it isn’t Clara. She  _ never  _ leaves Doxy’s. Especially not at night.”

“She could be sending the slave to do her bidding…”

“No, if Clara had a magic slave she’d use it to save Doxy’s without running an opium den,” Lilla said. “Clara has a million things she would wish for before asking that someone slaughter her girls. We bring her money.”

_ She has a point. _

Lilla gave Dara a wry smile. “Though you’re on the right track about the type of inside information the Ripper would need to have…”

But Dara’s thoughts had carried him away at her words.

_ Inside Information. _

What group knew all the details about Jack? What group had the authority to act outside the law? What group had the ability to control the public narrative? 

The Whitechapel Vigilance Committee.

Dara’s stomach plummeted as his eyes combed the apartment then fell back on Lilla. 

How did he confess to her that she could be in love with the Ripper?


	11. Whitechapel's Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara confesses to Lilla that Thomas may likely be The Ripper

“What are you lookin’ at me funny for? Are my horns showing?” Lilla asked, gently touching the crown of her head. 

Dara shook his head. He returned to the stool.

_ She’s not going to take this well. T _ he confusion in her eyes made his chest burn.

“Lilla, don't get angry…”

She didn’t respond, she merely leaned towards him, forehead creasing in concern. Dara, on instinct, took her hand. She looked surprised but didn’t pull away. 

“There is a group that can control the public narrative on Jack the Ripper. They have insider information as well.”

“A group - you don’t mean the Vigilance Committee, do you? They can’t all be in on it.”

“I… I do not think they are all in on it. I think that one of them probably has more information than the rest. They have a motive too…” He waited another beat. “Lilla, does Thomas have any emerald plated jewelry? Have you seen it on him or around this apartment?”

Lilla shook her head in response. “No-no, I’ve seen every inch of the man and…”

Then her jaw clenched. Dara saw her fist tighten around her pen. For a moment, he thought she may stab him with it.

“Lilla, he has access to you. You knew all of the victims and you said you let yourself talk to him about your work, your… your colleagues.”

“Dara…”

“And as you said, Jack would have to be someone the girls would trust. Who is more trustworthy to one of you than a kind face on a task force to catch the man out to kill you? I mean, when I met him I even felt as though I could trust him.”

“Dara, that’s all convenient, but where’s the motive? I mean, Thomas and I get on! I stay with him - he cares about me and-”

“Perhaps you are a valuable source of information,” Dara said gravely. “And as for motive, you said his father’s military checks have been cut because of population surplus. Perhaps he… he blames Jewish refugees.”

At that, Lilla yanked her hand away, rising to her feet. “The hell is wrong with you?” she asked, breathless. Her eyes were wild with fury. “You don’t know anything about Thomas and now you’re accusing him of murder?”

“Lilla, listen to me. I know that… love can be blinding for people like us-”

She laughed mirthlessly. “People like us.”

The horns sprouted from the top of her head. Dara took a step back and raised his hands.

“I mean, people who do not come by affection often-”

“You’re telling  _ me _ , a fallen woman, that I don’t come by  _ affection  _ often _?” _

“ _ Genuine _ affection.”

The horns retracted. Lilla gave him a defeated look. Then, just as quickly, the rage was back in her eyes. She shoved Dara away. Her strength was startling.

She snapped the journal shut. “If I’m so unwanted then you should be fine without my company.” She shouldered past Dara and yanked her shawl off the coat rack, wrapping it around her shoulders. “By the way, whatever you think Thomas may have-”

“Lilla, I don’t believe he’s using a slave vessel. I believe I was mistaken.”

“Oh, lovely,” she snarled. “So, he’s a monster all on his own? And how are you so certain?”

“Because you said you hadn’t seen any emerald jewelry on his person. And he wouldn’t have had difficulty seeing me at the pub that day if he had a slave. He would have recognized what I was.”

Lilla wrenched open the door, still glowering. “Have a look around the flat if you want to be sure, but you had better be gone when Thomas gets back.”

“Lilla, please. He could be the man that is killing  _ your girls _ !”

She threw a final seething look at Dara. “It’s not him.”

The door slammed shut. Dara swallowed as a wave of anger swept over him. He fought the urge to kick the armchair through the wall. He was trying to help her, and she was too blinded by infatuation to listen. Well, that was fine. She was right. If Thomas didn’t have a slave vessel, then he was Whitechapel’s problem. 

Dara would do a quick sweep of Thomas's lodgings, just to be certain there wasn't a vessel hidden somewhere, and then he would be gone from this foul city once and for all.


	12. The Game is Afoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara tries to reconcile with Lilla

There was nothing Dara hated more than coming to his senses, when rage faded into regret and then into clarity. So he stayed angry.

He ransacked Thomas’s apartment, checking corners, cabinets and beneath furniture for any hiding spots for a vessel. He didn't expect to find it, but he had to check. In his experience, the holder of a slave vessel was rarely separated from it.

After his search through Thomas’s flat, Dara found his anger had alleviated somewhat. Enough that he had stopped shaking, fire no longer threatening to erupt from his fingertips. 

Then the regret set in.

Perhaps Lilla was irrational in refusing to listen to him, but he hadn't exactly been delicate in his delivery of the news. 

Hell, he’d essentially told her that no one loved her. Truthfully, Dara wouldn’t have been willing to discuss anything further either had their roles been reversed.

Dara wrestled with the urge to seek her out and apologize. Would she even want to see him? No, Lilla had told him that she was no longer his concern and she was right. Better to go their separate ways.

_ That's not true. _

As much as Dara would rather not face Lilla's ire, it wasn't. They were friends now. If she was courting a murderer it was his problem. It could be that she intended to deal with Thomas herself, and she was certainly a match for him, but he could at least offer to do it for her and spare her the pain of killing the man she loved.

Dara shifted into the wind and began his journey over the rooftops of Whitechapel. His mood may have had something to do with it, but the city appeared especially forlorn as he wove between the smokestacks. The crumbling buildings and crowded streets were shrouded in an especially thick blanket of smoke. Through the haze, he heard the clamor of traffic: hooves, carts, shouts, a child begging for coin.

Dara assumed his mortal form in an alley adjacent to Doxy's. He straightened his jacket and turban and made his way inside before he could give it a second thought.

The place was busy and reeked of alcohol, but Dara could just make out the sweet scent of opium from the concealed basement behind the bar. He realized with a start that Lilla was behind the counter instead of Clara.

She hadn’t caught sight of him yet. She was focused on cleaning off the countertop. A girl that Dara recognized as “Alice” approached the bar, a man beside her with his hand on her waist. Lilla nodded and handed over one of the keys on the wall then went back to scrubbing the counter.

Dara inhaled slowly, communing his courage, then approached the bar. “Hello,” he said, not wanting to shout but wanting to be heard above the drunken laughter.

It was all he could manage at the moment. Apologies did not come naturally to the nearly fifteen hundred-year-old warrior.

She didn’t look up, only continued to wipe at a smudge beneath her rag. “Hello.”

Dara was surprised to hear an apology in her voice as well.

“I do not like the way we left things,” he said simply.

“Me either.”

Dara paused, looking away and fiddling anxiously with the hem of his sleeve. “I was harsh. I am sorry.”

She arched a brow, the corner of her lip tilting up just slightly.

“Lilla,” Dara said, his voice serious. “If you are not going to… take care of Thomas… then you need to leave Whitechapel.”

“Oh?” Lilla said curiously. “And where will I go?”

“You could come with me.”

Lilla finally met his eyes, her hard expression softening. “Where?”

“All over,” Dara shrugged. “I could use you at my side, Lilla. You’re smart and resourceful and speak many languages-“

“Thomas isn’t the Ripper, Dara,” she said with a sigh. 

So she was still in denial. Dara started to insist, but stopped. He would be delicate. He would not make the same mistake as before.

“What are you doing behind the bar?” he said, trying to appear nonchalant.

“Oh, Clara’s out to pick up a shipment of her good stuff from the docks. It’s one of the only times she leaves Doxy’s. We take turns covering for her,” she said breezily. Her dark eyes were somber. “Dara, don’t change the subject. Thomas is not the killer.”

Dara bit his lip, contemplating his response. 

_ Gentle. Gentle. _

He leaned forward on the bar. “How do you know?”

Lilla draped the rag over her shoulder and matched his posture, leaning her elbows on the counter-top and inclining her head. Dara could swear he saw the hint of tears in her eyes.

“I know because I was with Thomas the night that Emma, Martha, Annie, Elizabeth and… Catherine were all killed,” she said in a quiet, thick voice. “And you said he didn’t have your vessel either, so he couldn’t be making one of those ifrit slaves do his bidding.” She exhaled sharply through her nose. “And maybe I would have explained that, Dara, but I’m not fond of admitting that I wasn’t around for my girls when I should’ve been. I was tangled up with Thomas.” 

So Thomas had an alibi. Dara cursed himself. He'd fit so perfectly.

_ You'd have known this if you'd breached the topic with a little tact… _

Dara nodded, feeling foolish and guilty. When he looked back up at Lilla she was hastily wiping away a stray tear.

“I apologize. I should have had some tact when accusing your lover.”

“It's fine,” she said with a wave. “You just reminded me that if I had been out there instead of in bed with Thomas all those girls would still be alive.”

“Lilla, surely you don’t task yourself with the safety of all of Whitechapel."

She shook her head. “No, just with the safety of my girls.” Lilla sniffed. “I won’t make that mistake again though. I’m gonna join that bloody committee and do whatever I can to catch the bloke. Storm the streets every night if I've got to.”

Dara frowned. He knew the feeling well.

“So will you be sticking around then? Since this vessel of yours hasn’t been completely ruled out yet.”

“I'm staying,” Dara said, stroking his chin. “Thomas’s alibi changes things, anyway.”

“Were close to a solution, I’m sure,” Lilla muttered.

Dara laughed. “Is ‘a false lead’ also a part of your Sherlock tales, jewel?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, fire man.”

Dara pushed off the bar as Lilla began to polish some glasses. “What happens after the false lead?”

“Well,” Lilla began knowledgeably. “They throw everything out the window. Apply the former facts to a new lead.”

“The former facts… like how they are likely someone trustworthy.”

“Mm.”

“And they have a say in the narrative of the crimes.”

“Yes.”

“And they have inside knowledge and a motive.”

“And,” Lilla said, examining the bottom of a glass. “The potential to be violent.”

“Or the potential to tell an ifrit slave to be violent."

“Or not,” she grimaced. “I mean think about it. Everyone we’ve talked to has, at least momentarily,  _ seen _ you. Did anyone recognize what you were?”

Dara massaged his temples. “Let’s do this tomorrow, shall we? Get some rest and start fresh? It has been a rather taxing day for the both of us, I think.”

“Well, do you at least want some gin before you go?”

“No, thank you. None of your London delicacies ever again, please,” Dara grumbled. “I could escort you home if you’d like.”

“No need,” Lilla shook her head. “I’ll be escorted home by Constable Percy tonight.”

Thomas entered the brothel, striding up to the counter with a concerned expression. Dara averted his gaze. He couldn’t shake a feeling of embarrassment at the sight of him despite the fact that he was unaware Dara had scoured his flat hoping for proof that he was The Ripper.

“Lilla, I’d worried you’d already left,” he remarked, with a sigh. “Thought I’d walk you back to my place if you’re interested. I saw Constable Percy was busy with Miss Clara so I figured you’d need an escort.”

Lilla's head jerked up with alarm. "Clara and Percy?"

Thomas hesitated. "Y-yes. Looked like they were heading to the west side..."

Lilla flung her rag onto the counter and reached for her shawl, hurrying toward the door.

"Percy is Jack!" She called back to a stunned Dara and Thomas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gasp*


	13. Suffer and Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara, Lilla, and Thomas endeavor to catch The Ripper

Dara rushed to catch up to Lilla as she exited the brothel. She made a sharp turn down the alley and started down the moonlit maze of East End. 

“Lilla!” Thomas called out, and Dara realized he had followed them. 

He was about to tell the human to leave when Lilla reached out for the man's hand. He watched their fingers thread together. 

Well, It couldn’t help to have another in their number against Jack. 

“You said you saw Clara heading west with the Constable?” Lilla asked.

“Yes, not ten minutes ago.”

Dara threw Lilla a look as they continued down the narrow brick ways. “Will we make it in time?”

Lilla nodded, but her expression betrayed uncertainty.

If Dara knew London better he would simply shift forms and fly after Clara and her deadly escort. His ignorance of the labyrinthine city had never been so frustrating.

“Lilla, she seemed perfectly fine!”

“Not if she’s with Constable Percy, she isn’t,” Lilla said, shaking her head. 

“What makes you think that Percy is Jack?” Thomas asked, voice hitching as Lilla jerked him into a right turn. 

“He escorts us girls home. If Catherine or Emma or Annie were to see him in the street they wouldn’t hesitate to go with him. Bloody hell, I would take his arm in a heartbeat! A strapping policeman in Whitechapel offering to see a girl home safely?”

“But why would he want to kill street girls? He's a policeman, he's out to protect them!”

Dara smiled faintly. It had been a long, long time since he wondered why men entrusted with the power to kill might abuse it.

Lilla chewed her lip, eyes darting down the next alleyway.

“I don’t know why yet, but if this is anything like _A Study in Scarlet_ , we’ll find out.”

“Lilla, what if you’re wrong?” Thomas said, his voice calm but urgent.

Lilla growled, impatient. “Then at the worst, we’re interrupting a moonlit stroll!” 

This maze of alleyways was the most convoluted Dara had seen yet. With every step, he felt his heart pound in his chest. Maybe the Ripper wasn’t aided by a slave vessel. Maybe this wasn't a daeva problem and Dara had no business lending a hand. 

But that didn’t sit well in the pit of his stomach.

He'd seen more people living in misery in Whitechapel than anywhere else in a long time. Focused on finding the slave vessel, he'd tried to ignore them, knowing eventually he'd leave and they'd go on suffering. Lilla had been right when she'd said nothing in his power could change that. But here, at least, was a chance to remove a murderer who preyed on some of Whitechapel's most vulnerable, and seemed to think it fun. That, he could certainly do, and Suleiman was welcome to come down from above and punish him for it when he was done.

When they arrived at the street that Thomas had said was where he’d last seen Clara and the Constable, they made a mad dash across the mostly vacant road and into the next alley.

“We have to be getting close,” Lilla said breathlessly. 

_“...I’m warnin’ you, I’ll do it!”_

It was a woman's voice, not far ahead. Dara flung his arm out in front of Lilla and Thomas, stopping them before they could round the next corner. They skidded to a stop, Lilla cupping her hand over her lips, and Thomas clenching his teeth. 

The sun had all but set. Fog, thicker and darker than was typical - even for London - filtered past them in a steady stream. 

But it wasn't fog, Dara realized. It was smoke. Curling smoke that he recognized. 

“I can’t keep this up, Percy. Tellin’ em where to go and watchin’ them leave knowin’ damn well I’ll never see them again!” 

“You can’t or you won’t, Clara?”

There was a pause.

“Both.” 

“Well,” Percy sighed. “Then I suppose that the boys will be receiving an anonymous tip about a whorehouse in the East End with an opium den in-”

“The threat has gone cold, dear,” Clara said, voice breaking. “Been holdin’ it over me for too long and I’m all fed up now.”

“You know it isn’t _pleasant_ , right, Clara? I make her do it real messy-”

Lilla pushed Dara aside firmly and rounded the corner, disappearing into the smoke. Dara followed immediately.

He found her stopped only a few paces ahead. From what he could make out, they appeared to be in an abandoned courtyard. In the center a crumbling statue was circled by a wrought iron gate - three people stood before it.

The first was evidently Clara. Her face was streaked with tears, hair escaping the confines of her bun. All the sturdiness in her had vanished. But it wasn’t like when he had found her in the opium den and she had seemed a husk, devoid of any liveliness. No, she was all fear and sorrow now.

The second was Percy. He stood proudly before Clara. The spectacles he had been polishing the other day were perched on the tip of his nose. When he met Dara’s gaze, some of his arrogance left him. It was as though he was seeing Dara for the first time. 

But no, the first time Percy saw Dara, he hadn't faltered once, or struggled to remember him as others did. Perhaps thanks to the influence of his ifrit slave. 

And that was who Dara saw next. 

A tall woman with a long braid of ebony hair stood beside Percy. On one of her strong arms, he saw the beginnings of the slave marks that snaked over his own body. When Dara caught her blazing emerald eyes, he saw the helplessness and hatred of an enslaved daeva, a look he'd once worn himself.

“Oh, Clara, you brought friends,” Percy remarked, facing the three of them. “Lilla the whore and the prince of the Vigilance Committee… and then, of course, _the inspector_ from _Persia.”_ He glowered at Dara for a moment. “Lilla’s your master then?” 

“I have no master,” Dara snarled. The bow formed in his hand, an arrow in his knuckles. He leveled it at Percy's heart.   
“Slave, I command you to kill Clara if _Inspector_ Dara harms me,” Percy said coolly.

“Constable,” Thomas said, raising his hands in a peaceful gesture. “I haven’t the foggiest idea what's going on, but I know you don’t want to harm Miss Clara. She-”

“Azita, silence the boy, please.”

Azita’s arm shot out in Thomas’s direction, sending him flying out of the smoke. There was a muffled thud and for a moment, Dara thought that Lilla was going to run to him. But she did not take the bait. Lilla stood, firmly rooted to the spot. Her hands in fists at her sides as she fumed. 

_What a wonderful opportunity to grow horns and claws, Lilla…_

Apparently she was holding her cards to her chest. Dara had already shown his hand and Thomas had made the grave mistake of attempting to _reason_ with the Ripper. They would have to proceed more cautiously.

Percy approached Lilla, looking over his shoulder at Azita. “Puts some irons on Clara, will you?”

Azita snapped her fingers and a pair of manacles appeared on Clara’s wrists and ankles, the weight forcing her to the cobblestone. Percy took another step towards Lilla.

Maybe Dara couldn’t harm Percy, but he could certainly protect Lilla. The Afshin planted himself between the two. 

Percy met Dara’s eyes with a measured stare. “You act like I’m going to hurt her…”

“Am I not standing before Jack the Ripper?” Dara drawled.

“In a way I am. I give the orders, I bring the bodies. Azita, here, is the one who gets her hands dirty.”

The grammatical errors, the misspelling. Azita had been writing the letters on Percy’s behalf, she’d been the one to write the graffiti. He remembered his early days as a slave. It was always difficult to learn how to speak in your new master’s tongue (unless they had the thought to command that you know it), much less write with it. 

Percy gestured to Clara. “She tells me where the girls are going, I 'stumble' across them, take them out of sight…” he motioned to Azita, “and then Azita shows up and does the rest. It’s a tidy operation.” The Constable exhaled in resignation. “Although I didn't expect another slave to show up and poke his nose into things…”

“Unfortunately for you, I'm not a slave,” Dara growled.

“Hold on, let’s not get violent just yet. I think we can meet an arrangement-”

Lilla barked out a laugh. 

“ _Fuck you_ , mate!” she said, stepping around Dara. “What sort of arrangement is gonna make me overlook you killing my girls?”

“I’m in need of a new associate, as it were,” Percy said diplomatically. “Clara has decided to stop providing me with updates on the girls and what they do and when they do it. You could fill that seat.”

Lilla’s eyes narrowed, a muscle in her jaw twitched. “Oh, yeah? And what’s my payment? Getting to watch more of my mates die?”

“After tonight the police will find that the owner of Doxy’s is the Ripper’s most recent victim. The brothel will need an owner,” Percy said in a voice far too reasonable to belong to a murderer. “I can give you Doxy’s. You could be the only girl in the East End with her pockets full…”

Clara whimpered in the background, eyes wide and pleading. Percy swore under his breath. 

“Azita, shut that sniveling cow up.”

Azita waved a hand and Clara’s mouth was bound with a white cloth. 

Percy turned back to Lilla and rested a hand on his hip, right above his gun. It wasn’t a threatening stance though, it was almost casual.

“Lilla, you remember what happened to my family,” he said in a quiet voice.

The change in subject caught Dara by surprise. Lilla bore a puzzled look as well.

“My wife died in childbirth. Not a doctor available to staunch the bleeding,” he said gravely. His eyes became moist. “And my son. Peter. Like too many born in London now, he died young. Do you know why?”

He paused, as if awaiting an answer. Dara was about to put an end to the conversation when he spat.

“I don’t know why either,” he said. “My son was dying. That much was clear. But there wasn’t a bed available in a hospital for him. And the ones that were cost too pretty a penny for me to afford one.”

Dara had heard enough.

“Is this supposed to be your _justification_? Your son perished, so you inflict death upon-”

“ _And do you know why there were no doctors for my wife and no bed for my son, Lilla?_ ” thundered Percy. 

Lilla jumped back but Percy caught her wrist. Fire raged through Dara, threatening to burn through his skin. But who knew what Percy would tell Azita to do if he transformed into a fiery monster? Dara had to keep his calm.

Dara looked at Lilla. Her eyes were gentle, she’d taken a step closer to Percy. Now her hand was on his arm. 

“Tell me why, Percy.”

The way she asked the question was almost as though she knew the answer. Like she was baiting him. 

And was she… using her magic on Percy? Was that why his posture had relaxed? Why he didn’t seem wary of her approach?

“Because… because of those damn refugees, Lilla,” Percy said, shaking his head. “They're running us into the ground. Taking up our beds. Taking up our resources. Taking up our jobs even.”

“The Jews?” Lilla asked innocently. 

He nodded, eyes now locking with hers as she slid her fingers up his arm. 

“Lilla, forget the girls, alright? For you, I won’t touch another one.”

Dara’s eyes widened. He hadn't expected this to end bloodlessly.

“Instead we’ll set to the real task," Percy went on. "With both of our slaves, none of the _lipskis_ will stand a chance. We could fix it all together. We’ll see every last Jew wiped from London.”

Lilla took another step forward, her body now flush against Percy’s. “No more of my girls? And every last Jew?” she repeated.

“Yes, my love. No more fallen women. Every single Jew.”

Lilla smiled at him and for a moment, Dara felt as though he’d been deceived himself. Yes, now might be a very good time indeed to take his fiery form.

“ _Zol er krenken un gedenken,_ you slimy shit,” Lilla said.

Her free hand slid into her skirts and she swiftly removed Dara’s dagger, thrusting it into Percy’s chest. 

He staggered away from Lilla - dagger still lodged in his ribs. Whatever spell she'd cast on him was broken. He clutched at the handle, finally wrenching it free of his chest and casting it to the ground. 

The Constable reached for his gun. Dara, full of pent-up anger and not entirely in control of his actions, erupted into flames. At the same time, Lilla’s horns were unfurling, her claws sharpening.

Percy appeared completely dumbstruck, but a moment later he raised his weapon. Dara found himself in a position he'd learned to fear: staring down the barrel of a gun.

Lilla had sped forward in the blink of an eye, throwing Percy to the ground with her taloned fingertips. 

“Azita,” Percy said, blood spilling between his lips. “Don’t let them kill me!”

Dara braced himself for a fight. Azita would be strong, this wouldn't be the first time he'd been forced to violently subdue a slave sent against him. He was more concerned about Lilla.

But then a smile crept over Azita’s lips. One that Dara recognized. He realized what was about to happen. He held Lilla back, her claws raking across his arm.

“As you wish, master,” Azita said, conjuring two jambiyas in her hands.Her strong arms came crashing down into Percy with a force that splattered Dara and Lilla with blood.

Azita was pure rage. Her jambiyas plunged into Percy’s gut, then dragged up and down the length of his neck and groin. The Constable hardly had time to cry out as he was all but split lengthwise, but the life had still not left his body when Azita slit his throat.

Percy writhed, gurgling, and died.

Dara turned his eyes from the carnage. Azita sheathed her weapons. 

Her emerald eyes seemed to drink in the sight with equal parts relief, triumph, and sorrow. With the passing of her master, it wouldn't be long before she would return to her vessel, there to stay until another master woke her. Dara remembered hoping his next master would be kind. The dread of starting it all over again was a torture all its own. 

Azita turned to him as he resumed his mortal form. Her frantic eyes fell to his slave tattoos.

“You - you say the horned woman is not your master,” she stammered in Divasti.

Dara shook his head. “No, I have no master. I was not lying.”

Azita grabbed his hands, her eyes wet. “Don’t let me go back. How did you do it? _Please_ , how did you get free?”

He held her trembling hands and felt a thickness develop in his throat. He swallowed hard. Dara had to provide her with some certainty and that could not be accomplished with tears.

“You will never have another master, Azita. I’m taking you to Daevabad.”

She opened her mouth but stopped short when she saw her legs beginning to fade into smoke. The smoke being tugged towards Percy’s ravaged neck.

Azita gripped Dara’s hands tighter. “What’s going to happen?”

She was so young. Or had been, when the ifrit killed her. Years younger than Dara when he was enslaved.

“You will open your eyes in Daevabad,” Dara promised. “And you’ll look upon your Banu Nahida and the city of your people.”

He could see on her face that she had more to say, but as her waist began to evaporate a solemn peace fell over her. She nodded at Dara one final time.

Then her fingers were smoke, her face was smoke, and all of it was slowly funneled into Constable Percy’s blood-soaked shirt. 

Lilla knelt next to him, the vision of a beautiful woman once more. 

Dara crouched beside her and unbuttoned Percy’s collar. Beneath his shirt was a gold chain, on it a single emerald ring. Dara yanked the necklace off of his body with a bit more strength than necessary. He tucked the slave vessel away in his jacket and felt the weight of Azita’s teary-eyed gaze in his pocket. 

Dara had never had the chance to interact with a slave like that. He’d never seen them given the opportunity to slay their own master. 

His chest ached.

He hadn’t lied to her. The next thing Azita would see was Daevabad, but she would also see another slave mark added to her tally.


	14. The Jewel and The Scourge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara and Lilla go their separate ways

A policeman at the Whitechapel station found Percy's, mangled corpse in the station lobby. Pinned to his chest was a note that read “ _ Dear Boss: meet The Ripper. Properly in Hell, now. Signed, The Crown Jewel of Whitechapel.” _

It didn’t come as a surprise that the morning papers mentioned nothing about it. It was likely they never would, according to Lilla the police would sooner cover it up than lose face.

Still, Dara encouraged Clara and Lilla to go to the papers and give their story, but there was no way to do so without exposing Clara’s extra source of income. Not to mention the word of a fallen woman meant very little against the police.

But nobody seemed disappointed that Percy wouldn’t be outed as Jack the Ripper. Cruel and brutal justice had been served, and no missing headlines would take that away. Soon, the streets would breathe easy again. Clara could run her brothel in peace.

Dara, Thomas, and Lilla were crowded around a table at Doxy’s. Sunlight filtered in through the soot-coated windows and Dara once again found himself marveling at how crowded the place was early in the day.

“Thomas, you don’t seem surprised by the existence of… me. Or magic.” Dara observed.

Thomas smirked, the arm around Lilla’s shoulders tightening affectionately. “I’m sleeping with a half-succubus. Once the woman you’re getting off with sprouts horns and claws you become very open-minded.”

Dara blinked, eyebrows knitting together. He looked to Lilla curiously. “You didn’t say he knew you were a cambion.”

She shrugged. “I dunno, it just came out one day.”

“Sure…” said Dara slowly. “So where will you both go from here?” 

“Back to the old grind, I suppose. I’ll look out for the East End my way and Thomas will keep an eye on things with the Committee.”

“What about you, Dara?” Thomas asked. “You’ve just helped take down the most notorious blackguard in England. What’s next?”

Dara patted the pocket of his jacket where Azita’s vessel was tucked away. “I’ve got to return this to my home. Then I’ll set out to track down the next one. I’ve got a very busy millennia ahead of me.”

“Well, if you’re ever looking for company again, I’ll be here for the next few centuries, if I'm anything like my mum,” Lilla said. 

Dara briefly wondered how Thomas felt about the fact that Lilla would outlive him by hundreds of years. What it would be like to grow old and frail while the woman he loved was frozen in time. He suspected it didn’t matter much to Lilla and if that was the case, it probably didn’t matter much to Thomas either. 

“Yes, if I’m ever in need of a murderess with a strong, moral compass I’ll seek you out.”

Lilla frowned. “I’m more than a vigilante you know? I solved a murder.”

“Ah, yes, forgive me. If I’m ever in need of a murderess and  _ amateur sleuth _ I’ll return.” 

A few more pleasantries were exchanged, a round of drinks was served and Thomas left for a meeting with the Committee. Dara imagined it would be difficult to sit there and pretend as though he hadn’t helped put an end to Jack the Ripper’s reign of terror, but Lilla did not seem concerned. 

“He’s not one for the spotlight,” she said as they stepped out into the bustling street. “Thomas is a quiet one. Part of the reason I like him so much.”

“Yes, his silence allows plenty of time for you to talk until his ears bleed...”

“Naturally,” Lilla grinned.

Eventually, the crowd began to thin and the two left the East End arriving at the banks of the Thames. Ships sailed by, cargo was unloaded, and much like everything in London, there was an overwhelming air of uniform and industry. Grimy and smokey and cramped it as it was, there was no denying that this city felt a little less oppressive.

Nevertheless, Dara was still eager to depart for a warmer region of the world, even if part of him would miss London's durable people.

“No chance I can convince you to stay, fire man? I think I'll miss you,” Lilla said.

Dara shook his head, staring out at the passing ships. She cleared her throat, prompting the Afshin to turn his attention her way. She cocked a brow at him expectantly. 

He snorted, “Yes, yes. Likewise.” 

Lilla looked pleased. He had to admit he'd grown fond of the "fallen woman". Her effortless joking, brusqueness, efficiency, and even the unorthodox enthusiasm for violence were a blessing in his lonely wanderings. Yes, he'd miss the people of London, one in particular especially.

“Alright,” she said gruffly. “Off you pop, Inspector Dara. Till next time.”

“Yes, hopefully when we next meet it will be under less gruesome circumstances.”

Lilla winked. “How dreary that would be.”

And then she left him. When Dara turned around for a final glance, he noticed that Lilla didn’t look back. 

_ How very London-ish. _

He imagined someday he would return and he hoped that when he did, the Creator would be kinder to this city. But until then, the Afshin had much work to do.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A final epilogue is the next chapter


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara informs his Banu Nahida of his progress

_ Nahri, _

_ As always, I hope this letter and the attached vessel find you in good health. I hope that Daevabad is continuing on its path of healing and that your subjects are treating you with the respect that a Banu Nahida deserves.  _

_ If not, please give me their names and I’ll ensure they all meet a swift and painless end. I’m certain your prince would not approve but perhaps he can make an exception for your honor.  _

_ After I drop off this letter I’ll be heading to Zariaspa. I have a gift for the Baga Nahid and his consort. In my never-ending quest to gain back Muntadhir’s most valued forgiveness, I’ve acquired a very strong brand of alcohol from my most recent adventure. Strangely, it's called "djinn", and while I don’t care for it, the effects seem like something the former emir will appreciate. I’m eager to hear just how chatty he becomes after a single glass. Your brother will be most irritated with me but if he can forgive me for shooting him, he can forgive me for getting his lover drunk. _

_ The drink comes from a place called London. I’m not sure if you have heard of it, but I do believe you’d like it. It’s a huge, bustling city, and a merchant of delicate tasks such as yourself would find many opportunities there. I wonder if your fingers are as quick as they used to be… Either way, the town is full of marks to pickpocket and the people are in need of a good healer. Perhaps if you ever learn how to pass the seal to Jamshid you may visit. I would be glad to show you around, though a woman I met there is a better guide than I could ever hope to be.  _

_ Her name is Lilla and she’s half-qarina. Much more pleasant than you would think. You would likely get along. She’s got a tongue almost as sharp as yours. Though I will say, she makes you look like a paragon of goodness. She’s a pleasure house worker who lures violent men into her bed and then kills them.  _

_ This brings me to the vessel I’ve enclosed. Lilla helped me acquire it over a gruesome set of events to catch a murderer called “Jack the Ripper” (whose name wasn’t even Jack - the Londoners are strange). It contains a woman named Azita. She appears to have been quite young when she was enslaved and the horrors she has witnessed are great. I won’t go into detail for fear of your delicate sensibilities. _

_ When you free Azita from this vessel, I want to warn you that she will be rather frantic. I pray the Creator blesses her with a peaceful life. _

_ I will not lie, my thief, this was one of my more harrowing journeys and I did a great deal of poking around in the lives of humans. You are probably thinking me to be a hypocrite. Perhaps you are right. But - and if you repeat this to little Zaydi I will destroy the veil and poison your disgusting tea - they are quite fascinating. Industrious even. I fear this is a slippery slope for me but I do intend on returning to London someday. My cambion friend will be living for many centuries and I hope to persuade her to come along on my adventures eventually. She could be quite useful and I’m in need of a companion since the Princess and Aqisa have settled in Agnivansha.  _

_ On the topic of her usefulness, Lilla is the one who introduced me to this gift I’ve attached for you. I’m not certain if you are familiar with the language it is written in but the story is called “A Study in Scarlet.” It’s a tall tale about a murder featuring a detective named Sherlock and his healer friend, Watson. I’ve not read it myself, but Lilla swears it is a most engaging book and that this Doyle fellow is becoming quite well known in London. His story proved useful in helping us track down the owner of Azita’s vessel. _

_ And so I shall conclude this letter, little thief. I will visit Irtemiz’s home in the coming months for your response as usual.  _

_ How are you? What were you doing before you received this letter? Spare no details. Also, please let me know how the city’s newest innovations are coming along. _

_ I would wish you luck in becoming the best healer our people have ever known, but you do not need it. Instead, I wish patience, as it is never something you’ve excelled at and is a much-needed skill for a bureaucrat. _

_ And it bears repeating that my other vow will ever remain: have you any need for me, let me know and I will find my way back.  _

_ May the fires burn brightly for you, _

_ Dara _

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to my biggest fan and generous editor. This fanfiction would not have been possible without you. Don't roll your eyes, I'm right. Who introduced me to the Daevabad Trilogy? You. Who bought me my first Agatha Christie book? You (with our mutual money). Who endlessly soldiered the streets of London with me going in whatever direction I saw something I thought was pretty? You. This is dedicated to you, bobbish.


End file.
